


Where Will We Go?

by TarotJoie



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Fluff and Smut, Multi, Slow Burn, jonsa
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-10-04
Updated: 2019-07-21
Packaged: 2019-07-24 21:20:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 63
Words: 180,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16183412
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TarotJoie/pseuds/TarotJoie
Summary: Jon and Sansa leave Castle Black and go to the Vale of Arryn. Their journey back to Winterfell takes them on a tour through Westeros as they build their relationship together."Different roads sometimes lead to the same castle." ~ ASOIAF





	1. South

“Where will you go?”

“Where will _we_ go. If I don’t watch over you, Father’s ghost will come back and murder me.”

Sansa smiles, fighting tears at the mention of Father, and at the hope of having a family once again. It is a hope that even now she fears embracing. That she would ever see any of them again was the dream of a stupid little girl, and she'd rid herself of those long ago. But here he is, close enough to touch. She _had_ touched him. He's real. 

“Where will we go,” she revises.

“We can’t stay here, not after what happened.” 

Sansa takes a weak breath, seeing blackness swallow his eyes. _What is it like, to die?_ She wants to ask him, but she won’t. A part of her is afraid she already knows. 

“I’m sorry, Jon. I’m sorry they did that to you, your own men.” Her voice quiets as his lip begins to snarl.

“It doesn’t matter anymore," he bites. "They’re dead.” This makes her flinch, and she lowers her gaze back to the bowl of soup, flushing. _Do I frighten her?_ A beast begins to stir inside of him, one born in the darkness on the night he died, but he chains it back as best he can. _Nobody will ever frighten her again._ "I'm sorry," he offers. 

"It's all right. I'm just tired." She looks at him, seeing his eyes beg for a reassurance she can't give. "I've been living on edge for a long time, Jon. It'll take some time for that to stop. Maybe it won't, but I'm not afraid of you."

“You don’t have to tell me what he did to you, but I can imagine–”

“You can’t.” 

Her halting words penetrate him like the blows that ended his life. The beast flares again with the fire of all seven hells, but his body remains as still as the dead. 

“We’ll take it back from them,” he growls.

“You don’t have an army.”

“The Wildlings,” he urges but she just shakes her head.

“It’s not enough men.” Sansa’s voice is so sure, so resigned. 

He doesn’t understand. Why won’t she let him fight for her, for their home? She has to. That’s all he’s good for, now. He thought she'd want him to rip her husband apart with his bare hands. He's practically thought of nothing else than bathing in the blood of that monster since the moment she'd arrived at the Wall and he'd learned she had to leap from the fucking _battlements_ to escape the man. He failed her once already and the thought of letting those who've harmed her live free makes him sick.

Jon stands and paces a fair distance behind her. In truth he fears being too close to her just now, or anyone, unsure anymore of what he is capable. 

“Sansa, if we don’t take back the North we’ll never be safe. We have to fight them.”

“I don’t want to fight. Not now.”

“I do. It’s all I know. It’s all I’ve done since I left home.”

“It’s all I’ve done too,” she tells the soup. “Since the day I watched them take father’s head as I screamed, begging for mercy. But there is no mercy, Jon. There is no justice.” He doesn’t speak but she can feel him staring at the back of her head. He doesn’t know her anymore, and she doesn’t know him. They are both so different now. But Sansa refuses to let slip her last chance at having family again.

She stands to face him, sister to brother, eye to eye. “I’m tired of fighting. I can’t lose anything else, I won’t. Especially not you.”

“Sansa, please. I've fought beyond the Wall against worse that Ramsay Bolton.”

“Yes, sweet brother," she offers sadly. Sansa doesn't want to hurt him, not at all. But he must understand what's at stake. She moves closer to him, carefully, and places her hand over his violated heart. "You fought and you lost.”

This ends him, quieting the beast and snuffing its flame. He's just a boy, broken, with no faith left. Jon feels the prickle of a desire that shouldn't be possible creep up in him then. How can you long for someone you’ve never known? Father wouldn’t speak of her, and Catelyn certainly never fostered that sacred love for him. Still, he wants to cry out for her now, like a child waking from a bad dream.

He lowers himself. Sansa places a soft hand on his shoulder, squeezing, and Jon wants her comfort more than anything he can remember ever wanting. Maybe, just for a moment, she can be the mother he never had.

“I don’t want to go back there, Jon. It isn’t home anymore. It hasn’t been for a long time, for either of us.” She kneels in front of him and pulls his hand in hers, pressing it to her chest. “This is home. Do you understand me? Family. You and me. We have to protect that, no matter what. And you can’t do that by fighting a losing war just for pride.” 

Jon is wounded. 

“You have to be smarter than Father," she instructs, softly. "You need to be smarter than Robb. I loved them, I miss them, but they made stupid mistakes and they both lost their heads for it.” 

Jon's chin trembles and he lets the betrayal of his tears wash over him finally. She’s right, he knows it. “I did what I thought was right,” he whispers. “And I got murdered for it.” 

Sansa places a hand on his neck and pulls him to her warm breast, letting him weep. He can feel her heart beating against his wet cheek and realizes, for the first time since leaving home, he feels safe. 

“Where are we going to go?” He clings to her, needing her to guide him now, for he is lost. 

“South.”

"What are we going to do?"

She soothes his black curls with her long fingers and sighs. "Get warm."


	2. The Journey at Sea

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Sansa, Brienne, Pod, Tormund, Davos and Melisandre sail together down the Narrow Sea.

Jon hasn’t seen Sansa in nearly a week. Every day he asks Brienne about her and every day he’s given the same answer.

“The seas have made her quite ill. Lady Sansa asks that she be left alone to rest.”

“We should dock at Window’s Watch and ride the rest of the way.”

“That won’t be necessary," Brienne dismisses. "She is being cared for and insists that the roads are too dangerous with Ramsay still after her.”

Jon fumes at the woman. How can he be expected to just take her word on this? For all he knows, Sansa could be dying and yet she refuses to let him see her. _It’s madness!_ He storms off, back toward his cabin, and finds Davos arguing with Lady Melisandre in the wardroom. They quiet as he approaches, clearly wanting their little row kept private, but Jon couldn’t possibly care less.

“Any luck?” Davos asks, knowing the answer but hoping to divert attention from his quarrel.

“Sea sickness,” Jon spits. “That’s all she’ll tell me.” He collapses into a chair, brooding. 

“I’m sure she’ll be fine,” Davos offers. He glances at Melisandre as if to warn her they aren’t finished and she excuses herself with a nod.

“Who even is this woman, Brienne of Tarth?” Jon says her name with irrational disgust. “How am I supposed to trust her? And why does Sansa trust her more than she trusts me?”

Davos sighs, taking a seat across from him. He sympathizes with Jon. He’s been through a lot and now he’s set out to start anew with his sister who seems to have shut him out. But Davos knows the worries are unfounded, and perhaps Jon does too. The Onion Knight has a gift for knowing people, and this gift tells him Jon is probably feeling conflicted about abandoning the fight that once held all of his purpose. And this new fight he's taken up in its place isn't sating his inherent desire for heroics like he'd maybe hoped.

“I won’t pretend to be an expert on women, but I’ve lived a long enough life so far to understand a few things.” Jon raises a doubting eyebrow at him, but listens. “Your sister was married to a man that, by reputation alone, would frighten even the bravest of men. The things she must have endured are likely beyond either of our imaginations.”

“Do you think I don’t know that?” Jon snaps. “Why do you think I’m so worried? I need to see her.”

“Forgive me, but perhaps you might stop to consider that what _she_ needs right now is another woman looking after her.” Davos gives Jon a kind but scolding look. “I don’t know Lady Brienne well, but I recognize honor when I see it. You need to trust that Sansa is doing what she thinks is best. She’s survived a great deal already. She’s a strong woman, Jon. She’ll be all right.” 

Jon sighs, unsatisfied. “Where’s Tormund?” 

“I believe he’s topside, frightening the young squire with tales of making love to a bear.” Jon scowls. Seeing his poor attempt to lighten Jon’s mood has failed, Davos leaves him. Jon retires to his cabin and resumes his brooding, alone.

****

Brienne wipes down Sansa’s face and helps her back into bed before carrying the bucket away to empty overboard. When she’s gone, the Red Woman appears in the doorway to Sansa’s cabin.

“Forgive me for disturbing you, my Lady, but may I speak with you? I thought perhaps I could offer you some help.”

Sansa hesitates, unsure of what she thinks of the woman that Brienne hates, yet also saved her brother. Too exhausted to weigh these notions, she simply nods. Melisandre enters, closing the door behind her.

“I know that this journey has been long and difficult, so I won’t take much of your time.” Sansa seems to understand that she is referring to more than just the boat ride. “You’re pregnant.” It isn’t a question, but Sansa still finds herself searching for an answer. Only tears find her, though. “If you wish for that to no longer be the case, I can assist you.” 

Her words are gentle enough, but Sansa finds herself unable to respond. So many thoughts and emotions flood her all at once, but before she can reconcile any of it she leans over the bed, retching onto the floor. Sobs pour out of her along with the bile, and Melisandre moves to her side. She brings the rag to Sansa’s face, soothing her as best she can, and lays the poor girl back onto her pillow with a soft stroke of her hair.

When Brienne returns, Sansa is nearly asleep. Shock, then fury, then confusion come to her as she sees the Red Woman kneeling on the floor next to the bed. “What are you doing here?” she demands.

Melisandre finishes her task of cleaning the sick from the floor, rising to meet Brienne’s anger. But rather than responding, she simply places the soiled rag in the pot of water and carries it past the taller woman, leaving wordlessly. Brienne looks back to Sansa who stirs, turning over to face her. 

“Are you alright, my Lady?” 

A nod is all the answer she receives before Sansa closes her eyes. The heaving seems to have subsided enough for Sansa to find some rest. Brienne wants to question her about the Red Woman, but leaves her be.

“I’ll be standing guard outside if you need me. Try and get some sleep.”

When Brienne is gone, Sansa reaches under her pillow and pulls out the vial that Melisandre provided her. She considers it, only for a moment, then pulls the stopper and swallows the contents in a single gulp.

In the morning Brienne checks on Sansa. She is still sleeping but begins to rouse with the sound of her door opening.

“Forgive, my Lady. I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“That’s alright.” She squints, confused to see the sun shining through the port hole. It had been days since she’d slept for more than an hour or two at a time. Sansa begins to sit up and realizes she feels a wetness in her bed. Pulling the furs back, Sansa gasps to see a large pool of blood surrounding her legs. 

Brienne sees it a moment later and rushes to her. “Lady Sansa! Are you hurt?” She looks down in horror, taking in the gory sight. A terrifying realization consumes her, that she’s failed again at keeping her vow to protect her. _The Red Woman_ , she thinks murderously. “I should fetch your brother.”

“No!” Sansa halts her with urgency. Brienne searches her face for clarity but is further confounded when she sees, for the first time since she’s known the girl, a smile.


	3. Trust

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> We have to trust each other.

Jon dresses, pulling on his clothes with furious resentment. Another day of wandering this hateful ship, alone, with nothing but haunting thoughts to keep him company. Even Tormund and Davos have abandoned him to his angst, avoiding his company whenever they can find apt excuses. Not that they need any. Jon’s finally given them a reprieve, keeping himself locked away in his cabin, save for the occasional meal.

So, when he enters the wardroom that morning to break his fast he is rendered breathless to find Sansa sitting at the table waiting for him. She is dressed, looking healthy, and eating generously. 

“Good morning,” she greets him kindly. A part of him wants to challenge her presence and demand an explanation for her desertion. But the part of him that fills with warmth and relief at the sight of her grudgingly wins out. 

“You’re looking well.” He makes a forced attempt at a smile before sitting across from her to break bread.

“Yes, I’m feeling much better. Must have finally found my sea legs.” Her hope that they could just carry on without acknowledging her long respite dissipates when she sees the pain in his eyes. She sighs. “Jon, I’m sorry I –”

“It’s all right,” he interrupts. “I’m just happy to see you.”

Sansa reaches across the table and squeezes her apology into his hand anyway. He stares at their coupling for a moment before returning the gentle press. 

“You should eat,” she tells him and he does.

They discuss the remainder of their travel plans as they dine. If the winds are kind they should be arriving at Saltpans within a few days. From there they will make their way to the Bloody Gate, avoiding as many roads as they can.

“It’ll be a tough trek,” Jon informs her. 

“I can manage.” 

Her courage and fortitude continue to astound him. She is so far removed from the girl he once knew, back when they were all innocent children. If someone had told him back then that he would be traveling across the continent, preparing to build a new home, with _Sansa_ , he’d have sent them to be examined by Maester Luwin. 

“Sansa, how do you know the Eyrie will be safe?”

“I don’t, not really. I learned a long time ago that safety is never a sure thing.” He frowns at this but knows she’s right. “But while I was there I gained the love and loyalty of the bannermen.” She pauses, lifting herself defensively. “And I was betrothed to Robin Arryn, my cousin and Lord of the Vale.” 

His brow tenses as she expected it would. “Sansa, you can’t mean to –”

“I mean to do whatever necessary to keep my family safe, Jon. Robin is a child, sickly, and more importantly he's devoted to me. He’ll be easy to influence and his position can provide us some security.” She stiffens her jaw as if to reprimand his to questioning of her, but he persists.

“You’re already married.”

Sansa’s eyes betray the hurt these words cause, but only for a moment before she hardens again. “For now.”

Jon shakes his head, determined to understand her thinking. He searches for a way to take command but his time as commander of anything is over. Then it occurs to him. “And what of Lord Baelish. He’s still Lord Protector of the Vale, is he not? Is his _devotion_ part of your plan as well?”

Now she is simply angry. “No, Jon. It isn’t.” She stands, turning away from him but then his voice stops her and she hates it.

“Sansa,” he begs. She turns to him and her hatred melts in the sadness of his eyes. “Please don’t go. I’m sorry. Please, just talk to me. I can’t help worrying for you, but I’m on your side. You have to believe that.” 

She softens, letting her body relax a little, and returns to her seat. 

“We need to trust each other,” he pleads sincerely. “We can’t fight a war amongst ourselves. We have so many enemies now.”

Sansa nods. “I know. I’m sorry, too. It’s just been so long since there has been anybody I truly could trust, I sometime think I’ve forgotten how.” He looks away from her but she holds his hand again and his eyes return. “But I do trust you, Jon. I promise.” And with that he smiles, truly. 

“I spent a lot of time thinking about what an ass I was to you,” she admits. This catches him by surprise. “I wish I could change everything.”

“We were children,” he offers meekly. But she can see the pain of his memories betrayed in the twitch of his cheek.

“I was awful, just admit it.” She smiles at him, knowingly, and he returns the smirk.

“You were occasionally awful. I’m sure I couldn’t have been great fun, always sulking in the corner while the rest of you played.”

“Can you forgive me?”

“There’s nothing to forgive.”

“ _Forgive me,_ ” she insists.

“All right,” he concedes, giving her what she wants. “I forgive you.”


	4. Valar Dohaeris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Melisandre... uh, talk.

Jon stares out into the black night. Everyone on the ship is sleeping, preparing for their arrival at Saltpans in the early hours of morning. But Jon doesn’t sleep much anymore. He sighs, willing the war in his mind to cease but it wages on. It's as if he is torn between two worlds. 

On one side pulls the cold. The Night King, the army of the dead, Winterfell, the Wall. This side is nothing but darkness and death, but a deep pain aches in him knowing he walked away from it when he could have helped. But could he? What if there really is no hope against the coming storm? Was he wrong to run, to choose something else? Even for just a little while?

On the other side is her. Sansa. Warmth and love, and life. Family. What is there to fight for if not that? 

He shakes his head and takes one more deep breath of the salty sea air before turning to retire. But as he approaches his room, Lady Melisandre meets him at his door.

“Can’t sleep either?” He asks her, uncomfortably. Jon isn’t really sure how to talk to this woman, his savior he supposes. But he’s never felt gratitude for what she did, only questioning. 

_The Lord let you come back for a reason. Stannis was not the prince who was promised, but someone has to be._

He was grateful that Davos had sent her out of the room then and he hasn’t spoken to her about it since. Still, her words haunt him. 

“I wondered if I might have a word.” She used to speak in seductive riddles, but not anymore. Now, she is more hardened and serious than maybe even him.

“Of course,” he concedes, opening the cabin door. She follows him in and he busies himself with… nothing. There is nothing here. No raven scrolls or battle plans. Only his rested sword. He turns back to her, dropping the avoidance, and she smiles kindly. 

“I know things have been difficult for you,” she begins. His face hardens and she elaborates, “Since you were brought back.” 

“Yes, I know to what you were referring.” 

“I don’t wish to frighten you, or burden you further.”

He sniffs in slight amusement. _What did father always say?_ “But?” 

“No but. I only wish to offer comfort, if you want it. Explanation, if I have it.” It unsettles him how reassuring she actually sounds. “And guidance, if you’ll accept it.” 

“In truth, my Lady, I haven’t the slightest idea what it is that I want right now.”

“I understand.” 

He sighs and gestures toward the two chairs positioned closely together in the only space not taken up by the bed in this small cabin. They sit and he shifts a little at their awkward closeness. He can’t help but think about the last time they were alone together. She’d opened her gown and placed his hands on her, in her. He clears his throat, blushing slightly. 

“I won’t lie, I do find myself wondering about what you said. About the prophecy.”

“Yes,” she barely more than whispers. “But you’d rather you didn't. You don’t want these stories of greater plans drawn up by ruthless, imperceptible masters deciding for you what is. Who you are.”

He nods, unable to state it any plainer than that.

“I don’t either. Not anymore.”

“So, are you saying you’ve lost the faith?” He’s only half joking.

“I’m saying,” she pauses. “When I thought Stannis was Azor Ahai, I was foolish and weak. I was offered a gift, a small part to play. I was shown a glimpse of the Lord’s power, but rather than serve I let it intoxicate me. I became so lustful for more, a bigger, more powerful role, that I couldn’t see my own heresy. I’ve done things I can never undo. But I haven’t lost my faith. I think I’m just seeing it clearly for the first time. All I can do now is serve.”

He feels shame begin to rise in him. “Do you think I was wrong for leaving?” She doesn’t answer because she knows he isn’t asking her. “Prophecy or no, I saw what was coming. It wasn’t a vision, there was no possibility for misinterpretation. I saw it and I walked away.” He hangs his head low and she touches him then. 

Jon looks curiously at her hand on his. The last time her skin touched his he could feel a heat burning in her that was more than just arousal. It was something supernatural. But she’s colder now. 

“It isn’t wrong to want life, Jon Snow. And I think you deserve to choose your own path. But as I say, I am only a servant. I know nothing.” He pulls away from her at these words, remembering her evocation of Ygritte. 

“I need to get some sleep,” he stammers, rising to his feet. But she stands before him and her gaze renders him still. The most frightening part of her dark magic is how it does, despite all his efforts, intrigue him. 

She takes a step closer and he holds his breath. “You have fought so exhaustively already. Anybody who’s done what you have has earned a life of peace. But you don’t find it, do you?” He wants desperately to tell her the conversation is finished, but he doesn’t. “You have a heavy burden, I know. But perhaps I can lighten it for you. One man can’t live in such agony all the time. I don’t know the Lord’s plan, but I know He doesn’t want that.”

“How can you help?”

“You punish yourself, for the love you seek. You hold it at bay, far enough so that you can never touch it, but close enough that the promise of it keeps you longing painfully.”

“She’s gone.”

“Not her.” Melisandre moves even closer now, her body only inches from his own. 

Jon’s face contorts. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at but I don’t–”

“I’m not talking about me. You don’t love me and you don’t want me. No more than any other man with blood running through his veins, anyway. But you do love. And that love is something you won’t let yourself embrace, not the way you truly desire. But your resistance will turn into a bitterness that will cause you to lose her forever. And you’ve only just gotten her back.”

His eyes widen. “Are you mad?”

“Maybe. I’m also right, about this at least.”

"She's my sister." At this she smirks and, finally, he finds his feet. Jon moves to the door, opening it roughly. “I think you need to leave. Now.”

She follows him, but not to go. Melisandre presses closer and he backs away until his shoulders meet wood. “You don’t want to hurt her, I know," she soothes. "But if you deny yourself completely, you will.” He feels the beast inside him, angered. “You won’t defile or abuse her the way other men have, but you’ll do worse. You’ll push her away, betraying her in a way that extinguishes the last bit of light she has left.”

He doesn’t move, or speak, or breathe. The heat in her seems to be returning, unless it’s him. She places a hand on the door he opened, closing it again. “Let me help you,” she whispers, her breath filling his mouth as she lowers her hand, gripping the hardness he hadn’t realized was growing. “Let me serve you.” Her lips meet his and he doesn’t stop her, at first.

When her hand around him pulls he grips her by the shoulders and shoves her back, harder than he’d intended. 

“Help me?” he challenges. “By letting me fuck you? Why, so I can father some murderous shadow creature?” 

“No,” she answers sincerely. “No creatures. No fucking. Only serving.”

Jon’s heart begins to pound in a way it hasn’t since before he died as he watches her lower herself to her knees. He is cemented where he stands and the pounding rises from his chest to his ears. 

“I only wish to offer relief. Release.” Her hands begin to undo his breeches but he grabs her by the wrists and tosses them back. She stares up at him, waiting.

“Don’t,” he growls. “Don’t touch me. Don’t _speak_ to me.” The beast is inflamed, now. Unchained. Before he knows how to stop it he pulls his cock free and wraps a hand in her hair. “Just open your mouth.”


	5. Pirates

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The group is forced into a detour.

When he opens his eyes, he is empty and she is gone. The air around him begins to cool and his mind starts to clear, at last. Sadly, it is no comfort to have a better view of reality just now. 

_What have I done?_

His stomach tightens and he tries to remember how he let this happen while simultaneously trying to forget that it did. But before he has time to work any of it out he hears Davos calling for him, panicked. 

Jon rushes to the deck and, at first, he fears the shame of his evening has been revealed to all. But Davos’ pale face is staring at something in the distance that Jon cannot see. “Pirates,” the older man whispers. Swift, with expertise, Davos sets to work. He instructs Jon to gather their group and lead them to the smaller boat strapped to the port bough. 

Terrified, Jon sprints to Sansa’s room, but Brienne has already gathered her, along with Podrick. Jon looks at the woman, questioning, and Brienne offers him a quick, “I heard Ser Davos. We have to go. Now!” Tormund is roused next, jumping out of bed at the ready when Jon pushes open his door.

They are making their way toward the surface when Jon remembers the woman he'd just been willing himself to forget. Shifting his pace, hatefully, he doubles back and throws open the door to her cabin. But she is gone. The room is empty and Jon tells himself Davos has likely already collected her, releasing himself from any further obligation. 

When he reaches the rest of the group, Davos is guiding them all down the roped ladder. Jon follows and when Davos joins them he realizes the Red Woman is not there. “Where is she,” he asks the man who begins rowing them in the opposite direction of the ship. 

“Gone,” he replies.

Jon takes up a set of oars, and they move swiftly through the dark water. 

Davos guides them, a seasoned smuggler familiar with the area. When they finally hit land, Davos urges them to exit the boat as swiftly and quietly as they can. He leads them up the stony bank and into a small shelter of carved rock. None of them have caught their breath before the black night ignites in a swarm of flaming arrows.

They all watch, stunned, as the ship they’d occupied only moments ago is set aflame. Sansa stands behind Jon, griping his arms in horror, and Brienne tries to take in as much of her surroundings as she can while the sky is lit up. Pod stares at the spectacle wondering if he’s actually woken up yet, hoping not. 

Tormund is the first to speak. “What the fuck was that?”

Jon and Davos look at each other, both with the same suspicion gripping their eyes. “Come on,” Davos says. We have to keep moving. 

By the time morning light breaks they have made it well into the thick of the briars. Davos reassures them that, while menacing, the briars are the safest place for them to hide until they can seek more appropriate shelter. He’s right, and his previous trips through the land have served to educate him on how to navigate through the thorny bushes via a path unseen from the rocks. 

They are far enough now that they can no longer see the flames, or the ship, but the smoke rising into the morning sky is thick. Just as Jon is about to ask Davos to help him devise a plan they hear a gravelly, deep voice call out, “Davos!” Sansa shrieks, and they all turn in the same direction. A large man looms over them, his position up the hill working to exaggerate his impressive height. 

“Elder Brother. Seven blessings to you.” Davos makes his way toward the holy man and the rest follow, unsure, to say the least.

The man gives a slight nod toward the rising smoke and asks, “Am I to assume this is something to do with you?” Davos sighs and the man signals for them to follow before making his way back up the steep hill.

When they arrive at the wooden sept, Sansa is awed by the carvings of the Mother and Father on the doors as they pass through. Once they are indoors, the tall man turns again to Davos. 

“Elder Brother, may I introduce my eldest son, Dale. I believe you’ve heard a dozen more tales of the lad as boy than you ever wished to, but I’m glad of the chance for you to finally meet him, a man grown now. He’s quite eager to sample the fine ale of the Quiet Isle. We all are. I trust the harvest has been fruitful this season?” The man’s eyes turn to Jon, nodding. Jon offers the calmest half-smile he can gather in the moment. It isn't great.

Davos continues. “And this is his lovely wife, Asha.” Sansa is better at catching up. She offers a polite curtsy and a charming smile. But the holy man turns to the two larger companions flanking the frightened squire.

“My good sister, Cora and her husband Tormund.” They both look at Davos but he continues, immediately. “And this is Devan,” clapping a hand on Pod’s shoulder. “Our budding squire. His mum and I are quite proud.”

“Lovely to meet all of you,” the Elder Brother expresses, hoping to end the interaction a bit more quickly. “Surely you would like something to eat.”

***

Later, when they’ve been settled in to cottages, separated according to 'household' – to Brienne’s immense displeasure – Jon seeks out Davos. He finds the man standing near a thick tree atop the peak of the hill they’d climbed. Jon knows he is trying to see across the bay. 

“What in seven hells happened?”

“I don’t know, yet.” Davos squints his eyes but then gives up his post, having found nothing. They walk back together toward the cottages.

“The Red Woman?” Jon knows that Davos shares his suspicion that she was behind this. He just doesn’t know why. It certainly isn’t the same reason as Jon. _Was it a distraction?_ Shame burns his cheeks, but there’s no time for that. 

“I went looking for her. Earlier, before I saw the pirates. But I couldn’t find her anywhere. She must have jumped ship at some point in the night.” Davos shakes his head, looking around for an answer to something. Anything, really, would be nice right about now. 

“No,” Jon chokes through his guilt. He isn’t sure which guilt came first. The memory of what he’d done with her or the realization that she might’ve still been on the ship when it was burned. He closes his eyes, squeezing his hand to his forehead and Davos watches him. “She was with me.”

“When? Where?” Davos needs information.

“In my room. Right up until just before you began calling for me.” He looks down, afraid to look at Davos. But when he does, it isn’t horror or disgust or disappointment he finds in return. In fact, the knight isn’t looking at him at all. Instead, he is looking back in the direction of the ship, this time with more fear than before, but they are too far inland to see anything now.

They return to the cottages and Jon enters his. Sansa is sitting on the bed, frightened, but thinking deeply as she tries to work out what all this means. And what to do about it. Apparently, Jon is the only one thinking about his sins so he decides to set last night’s transgressions aside in order to check in on Sansa. 

“Are you okay?”

“Jon, what happened?” 

He shakes his head and sits beside her. “I don't know. But we'll find out.” 

“Where is Melisandre?” At this he just shrugs, afraid to even speak of her. 

Sansa sighs and lays her head on Jon’s shoulder. He wraps his arm around her and kisses the top of her head. It is only then that he remembers what Melisandre suggested about him and his sweet sister.


	6. Man and Wife

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa discuss Melisandre.

Sansa sleeps silently next to him in their ‘marriage’ bed, but Jon finds no rest. He stares up at the curved ceiling, counting the cracks in the stone. He can’t think anymore. The night had been long already and, no matter what he’d tried to contemplate, nothing made sense. So, now he is counting. 

Finally, he moves his gaze down to the woman sharing his bed and startles to see her eyes open and fixed on him.

“What is it?” she whispers, moving a hand to his chest. Her warmth comforts him despite himself and he covers her hand with his, squeezing gently.

“Nothing, go back to sleep.”

But she disobeys him, naturally. Propping herself up on her elbow, Sansa turns to face him more fully.

“Do you think it was Ramsay?” Her voice croaks with fatigue, but he doesn’t sense any fear in her. Maybe anger, though.

Jon sighs and strokes her hand with his. “I don’t know. But somebody knew we were coming.”

“Who else would it be?” 

Jon fights the invasion of Melisandre’s face in his mind, squeezing his eyes closed for a moment before returning to the more soothing sight of his sister. She sits up fully then, and her eyes narrow on him.

“What, Jon. What do you know?”

“I don’t know anything,” he insists, but he knows she won’t leave it alone.

“You said we need to trust each other.” He sighs and suddenly has to fight the threat of tears. “Is it Melisandre? She disappeared. But why would she–” Sansa stops herself. _Please,_ he begs, praying to the gods he curses. _Please don’t make me tell her._ “Jon.” He sees something in her eyes change and, suddenly, she is frightened again. Quietly, achingly so, Sansa’s shaky voice whispers, “I have to tell you something.”

“What?” he urges. Terror floods him in a way that is entirely fresh, sending a shiver through him. “Did she do something to you?” Jon feels sick, wondering if he’d allowed this woman to endanger them all by permitting her into their trust. Sansa lifts herself from the mattress and his fears deepen.

“I don’t know, I… She said she wanted to help.” Sansa is pacing and Jon nearly retches as the woman’s words invade his mind. _Let me help you._ He rushes from the bed and pulls Sansa so that she is facing him.

“Sansa, _what_ did she do?” he rages.

She doesn’t look at him, only through him, like the ghost he is. Her eyes dart around, searching, examining something that isn’t in the room with them. “I… I was sick… I didn’t want…” His heart is racing with panic. She's slipping away. 

“Sansa!” He shakes her, just hard enough to return her to him.

Tears well up in her eyes. “Jon, I was pregnant.” The color drains from his face and he begins to tremble as he watches the tears make their escape down her face.

“What do you mean, _was_?" He doesn't understand.

“I couldn’t, I didn't want… not his...” She starts falling apart and he wants to hold her but he needs to know.

“Sansa, _please,_ ” he begs.

“She… she gave me something. I thought it was moon tea. I… I’d had it once, on my wedding night. Baelish gave it to me before he left Winterfell, but…” Jon swallows a rock. “This was different. It didn’t taste the same. Oh gods Jon, what if…” He pulls her to him then, and she cries into his neck.

Rage fills him as they tremble against each other. He wants to soothe her, but he is too shaken himself. _What have I done?_

“This is all my fault,” he moans into her hair, pulling her harder against him. “I never should have…” _come back. I shouldn't be here._ Sansa sobs harder and it pulls his attention back to her. Jon moves, bringing her back to the bed and they sit together as he holds her.

“How did you feel," he asks slowly, "afterward…”

Sansa sits up, wiping the liquid from her face. “I don’t know, it was strange. I felt… better. Not just physically, but…” He watches her, seeing she is trying to make sense of it. “It’s like I was less afraid. Like I finally felt free.” Jon let’s out a breath. He can’t help but register the fact that he hadn’t been the one to do this for her. “Jon, what if she… what if I…?” She can’t find the words but he fears it too.

They don’t know the depths of this witch’s power, but if she can bring someone back from the dead then surely she could poison the woman he loved more than anything in the world. How long would it take? A month? A year? Just long enough for him to… to what?

“Hush now,” he whispers, rubbing circles into her back. Sansa’s breathing begins to calm and he presses her shoulder, softly encouraging her to lay back down. “You need to rest. We will figure this out in the morning, but for now just rest.”

After a moment, Sansa pulls on his arm, requiring him to lay with her. “You need to rest too, Jon.” He lowers himself next to her and she curls into him. Jon wraps his arms around her and brushes her hair lightly with his fingers. She can’t see him staring down at her, restlessly, but she whispers anyway, “I mean it. Go to sleep.”

Jon sighs and grudgingly closes his eyes. Sleep finds him quicker than he expects and when he opens his eyes again, it is morning.

Sansa stirs in his arms and he holds her closer, not ready to part from her warm comfort. He wants to stay in this embrace forever, safe and separate from the cruelty of what waits for them in the world. But the fantasy of forever is stolen from him when there is a knock on the door.


	7. Her Champion

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Brienne make a plan. Jon takes care of... other business.

“Lady Sansa?” 

Jon scowls, more aggravated than ever with Brienne’s refusal to let him see Sansa while she was ill. But he rubs Sansa’s arm gently and gives her a soft smile when she opens her eyes.

“I believe you are being summoned, my Lady,” he says, gesturing toward the second knock that is now sounding.

Sansa looks around with the confusion of someone waking in a new place for the first time. When her awareness is fully restored, she raises both stiff arms over her head to loosen the muscles that had been held in place by her brother’s grasp while she slept. 

Jon’s eyes drift, unintentionally, to the spot where her breasts are lifted from her ribs with the stretch and he feels the usual tightness that greets him in the morning stiffen more significantly. 

Another knock. _Cursed woman._

Jon turns toward the wall, hoping to communicate an intention to get more sleep and Sansa moves to open the door. 

“I’m sorry to disturb you, my Lady. But I hoped I could speak with you.”

“Of course.” There is no need for Sansa to dress, as neither of them had undressed the night before, so she pulls on her cloak and boots before leaving with her lady knight.

When their footsteps have faded down the path, Jon rolls onto his back and pulls the furs away from his body to give his erection a reprimanding glare. He reaches down to shift himself into a less painful position when a deep, wildly provocative voice enters his mind. 

_With ya hand, then?_  
.  
He smiles and the thought of her fills his heart. And his cock. 

Opening his breeches, Jon starts to pull himself slowly. Her face is conjured before him and it’s almost as if she were here. _Gods, I miss you._ He closes his eyes and tries to take himself back to the cave. He breathes in deeply, willing her scent to fill his nose, and her taste... His tongue brushes his lower lip unconsciously as the memory takes him. 

It doesn’t take long and soon Jon is redressing. As he puts on his boots, it occurs to him that he hasn't pulled himself since before his death. In fact, he isn’t sure he’d even been aroused since then. _Except for the Red Woman._ Jon shudders and pushes the whole subject from his mind, determined to refocus. There are more pressing matters.

***

Brienne leads her lady down a pebbled path to the shore in order to speak in private. When she’s made multiple scans of the surrounding area she turns to Sansa with concern. 

“My Lady, I wanted to check in with you and see if you are alright.”

“I take it you were at your usual post last night.”

“I didn't mean to be invasive, only-” 

"It's all right. I trust you, Brienne." 

Brienne looks at her with less formality now. “Can I do anything for you?” 

Sansa knows that she doesn’t mean protection and a part of her feels some guilt for not properly acknowledging what a comfort it has been to have her standing by her side, and sick bed, since her escape from Ramsay. Not just because having a strong guard nearby keeps her safe, but because having a strong woman nearby keeps her sane. Sometimes the masks that men require from women, often to protect their own fragile manhood, can make us start to forget who we really are. Brienne helps her remember. 

“There is something. But before I ask it, I want to tell you something.”

“Yes, my Lady.”

“Would you call me Sansa?” she asks without pretense.

“Of course, my – Sansa. In private, anyway.” Brienne gives her a gentle smile.

“I want you to know how grateful I am that you found me in the woods that day. That it was you, and not someone else. What I mean is,”

“I understand Sansa.” They look at each other and Sansa isn’t sure she really does. Brienne is so hard to read sometimes. But before Sansa can try to elaborate Brienne continues, “Anybody with a sword and proper training can rescue a damsel.” She smirks. “But for all the chivalry men whip around in order to prove their strength, they don’t understand.”

“Yes, and it is the understanding that helps. At least for me.” Sansa smiles. “Thank you.”

Brienne nods, returning her smile. “I believe you had a request of me?”

Sansa takes a deep breath and her face shifts into concern. “Yes. I’d like you to go to the Eyrie.” Brienne seems confused. Wasn’t that the plan already? “Today.”

“My Lady–”

“Sansa.”

“Sansa, I swore to protect you. How can I do that if I’m not with you?”

“By going to the Vale ahead of us in order to make sure it’s safe. Jon will protect me. It’s like you said, he’s got a sword and proper training. But I need _you_ to speak with the Lords of the Vale and let them know of our plans, as well as the trouble we’ve found. Jon and Davos are going to set out to solve the mystery of what happened with the attack, but I don’t want their investigation to delay us any longer than it has to. If you find things sufficiently secured, return with as many knights as you see necessary to journey with us the rest of the way. And if not, just return.” Sansa’s last words are pointed and Brienne considers them for a moment before nodding. 

“May I escort you back to the cottage?” 

“I think I’d like to stay by the water for a while.”

“Then I shall bid you farewell, Sansa.” Brienne bows and Sansa closes the space between them to place a gentle hand on her armored shoulder.

“Save travels Brienne.”

Sansa watches her champion depart before turning her gaze back to the bay. The water is lovely to look at. Everything is lovely to see after you’ve been locked in a frozen tower. She remains there for a while longer before turning to head back. 

When she does, her breath is ripped from her at the sight she meets. Only a short distance away, blocking the path back from where she came, stands a massive, looming figure in a hooded cloak. He’s staring right at her, watching her. She can tell, even without being able to see his face. Sansa begins to tremble and her eyes dart around for another way, but she is trapped.


	8. The Gravedigger

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A familiar face and an offer of hope

Sansa opens her mouth to scream but before she can she hears a sword unsheathe.

“If you value your life you’ll move no closer,” Jon warns. He steps out from behind the rocks with his sword pointed at the figures throat. 

“I’m not going to hurt the little bird.”

Sansa gasps, and covers her mouth. Jon advances but she quickly yells, “Stop!” He does, but remains focused on the man, swearing to the gods he’ll take the beast’s head if he moves an inch. Then, out of the corner of his eye, Jon realizes Sansa is approaching.

“What are you doing?” Jon scolds, baffled by her actions.

She doesn’t answer, transfixed as she moves up the path until she is standing before him. Slowly, she reaches up and pulls back the man’s hood to reveal a half-scarred face and sad eyes. 

“You’re the Hound,” Jon accuses.

“Not anymore,” the man states plainly. 

Sansa’s breath quickens and then she surprises all of them, including herself, by throwing her arms around his tall, thick neck. 

Sandor Clegane doesn’t return the embrace, despite his desire to do so. When she releases him though, he gazes into her eyes as if he is seeing a beloved ghost. Jon's eyes dart incredulously between his sister and the Hound, and Long Claw remains at the ready. Neither of them say anything so Jon decides to.

“Does somebody want to explain to me what in seven hells is going on?”

“Jon, lower your sword.” He gapes at her but then she turns to him. “Please.”

With a grunt of frustration, he concedes.

“What are you doing here?” she asks, turning her eyes back to the familiar face.

“I live here,” he replies. “What are you doing here? I thought you’d be dead by now.”

She smiles at him and then looks back at Jon’s furious, begging face. “Perhaps we should return to the cottages and speak there.” Jon flinches, but she quickly adds, “All of us. Together.”

***

The massive man sits motionless in the single chair that occupies the room. Sansa returns to sit on the bed after handing him a cup of ale. Jon stays standing, eyeing the man with relentless caution.

Sansa speaks first. “I should have gone with you when I had the chance.” 

Sandor lowers his gaze to the cup in his hands before lifting it again to Jon. He can see the man is losing his patience, so he offers what he can. “In King’s Landing, after the battle of Blackwater Bay, I left, deserted the king and offered to bring your sister home. She wasn’t a fool for refusing. Most men are depraved dogs who shouldn’t be trusted, and she thought Stannis would protect her once he prevailed.”

Jon looks at her, stunned, but her eyes remain steadfast on the other man. 

“But he didn’t,” she states coldly. Mercifully, she finally turns to her brother. “Sandor protected me from Joffery’s cruelty.”

“I didn’t.”

“You did,” she insists, turning back to him. “If it weren’t for you, I would have…” but she stops herself. “You saved me more than once. I’ll never forget that day the mob attacked us in the streets.” Sandor’s face flinches away from her at this, but she straightens herself with defiance and turns back to Jon. “Three men dragged me into an alley, determined to take their hatred for that tyrant boy out on me. They’d already started to rip my clothes off when he came and stopped them.”

“I murdered them.” 

“You saved me.” 

Sandor smiles a little into his cup. “Aye. And I’d do it again little bird.”

They both look at each other for a moment before Jon establishes his presence again. “I owe you a great debt then, Ser.”

“I’m not a knight,” he corrects, looking at Jon. The two men examine each other, truly, for the first time. 

“How did you come to be here?” Jon’s gratitude for the protection this man provided his sister doesn’t outweigh the suspicion he holds, given that they still don’t know who ordered the attack on their ship. What are the odds that a former Lannister king’s guard just happens to be on the same small isle where they are hiding out? He reminds himself that Ramsay isn’t the only one hunting his sister.

“It’s a long story, I’m afraid. But the short version is that it’s because of your sister.” Sansa is confused by this, but before she can question him he adds, “Arya.”

Jon and Sansa jerk their heads simultaneously toward each other, then back to the man in the chair.

“Nobody’s seen Arya since before they killed our father,” Sansa explains.

“I have. Little shit nearly got me killed, more than once.” Jon’s face tightens in anger at this. “But,” he continues, “when I did beg her to kill me, she refused. Left me to die alone in pain after all I’d done for her.” He smirks then, almost chuckling. “I should’ve died, but the Elder Brother found me instead. I’ve been serving here ever since.”

Sandor Clegane explains to the longing pair how he’d come to be in possession of the youngest Stark girl. He tells the broad strokes of their journey together, including his failed attempts to return her to both her mother and her aunt. But when he tells the tale of how they parted he remains vague about the warrior that defeated him. He’d seen her with them when they’d arrived on the isle and, in truth, he was in no hurry to reunite with Brienne of fucking Tarth.

“Do you know where she went?” Jon asks, desperately. But his face falls when he is answered by a shake of the scarred man’s head.

“She mentioned once that she had friends in Braavos. I don’t know, though.” He watches the hope drain from both of them but decides to offer some back, if he can. “If I was a betting man, I’d say she’s still alive. The girl knows how to take care of herself. Ruthless little killer.” At this he does chuckle.

Jon isn’t comforted. The thought of his treasured sister out there, alone in the world, breaks his heart. If only he’d come for them both when he wanted to. 

Sandor stands, crouching so that his head doesn’t hit the ceiling. “I’d better be getting back. There’s graves to dig.” 

Before he can leave, Sansa puts her hand on his arm and he looks at her. “Thank you,” she says softly. He only nods, then lifts his hood and towers past Jon out the door. 

Jon doesn’t move, trying to process all he’s just learned about his sisters and their protector he’d never be able to repay. When he looks at Sansa, she is gazing at him lovingly with tears in her eyes.

“She’s out there,” she whispers. “I know it.” 

He moves to her then and pulls her tear streaked face to him, wishing that he could fuse her with his own body so that they will never be apart again. His lips press into her forehead as an attempt. Jon warns himself not to hope for the day when they are all together again, but it doesn’t work. _Family. Home._ It is all he wants in the world.


	9. Kissed by Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon remembers Ygritte and confronts his feelings for Sansa

Jon and Sansa spend the rest of the day together. She tells him of how she sent Brienne ahead to secure the Vale and he tells her that Davos is going to check in with some of the pirates he knows. Neither is sure of the other’s plan, or chosen representative, but they make peace with it for now.

They walk together by the water, arm-in-arm, without speaking for a while. The quiet setting has had a marked influence over them in a short time. When they come to rest on some driftwood, Jon places his cloak over it and they sit close together. Pretending to be man and wife is easy, he thinks, far too easy. Then her sweet voice comes, causing him to wonder if she had heard this sinful thought.

“I wish we could just stay here forever.”

“We can’t,” he responds too soon. “It’s a holy–,” but her sigh silences him again.

“I know, Jon. I was only…” She doesn’t finish but he understands and wraps his arm around her, rubbing her back lightly.

“Aye. I must admit it’s a nice idea. A quiet little life, farming and drinking ale. Strolling the green hills.” He smiles at her gently and she lays her head on his shoulder.

“Do you want children, Jon?” 

The questions take him by surprise. At first, because it would have sounded to anyone listening as though she were asking if he wanted to have children with her, his ‘wife.’ But upon further thought of what she was actually asking, he couldn’t find an answer. After too long a silence, he tries.

“I made up my mind a long time ago never to father children. Even before the Night’s Watch. I certainly didn’t want to bring another bastard into the world.”

She places a kind hand on his bent knee. “Bastards aren’t so bad.” He can’t find any words for this. “I wasn’t asking what you decided. Or even what you will do, now that you aren’t sworn to any vows. But have you ever imagined it? Ever looked at a little child, playing and laughing, and wanted one of your own, even just as a passing fantasy?” 

Jon can see it now, playing out in front of him as if they were running and screaming with laughter along the beach. 

“I had a woman once. When I’d been taken by the Wildlings and lived amongst them as one of their own.”

“Is that when you met Tormund?”

“Aye. And he knew her well. Ygritte. She had red hair as well.” Sansa isn’t sure if he means as well as Tormund or her, but she doesn’t ask. “We loved each other. We weren’t married, but the Freefolk have a different way. Men and women lay with who they want, and if children are born it is celebrated. They all took care of each other, looked after one another.”

“That sounds nice.”

He kisses the top of her head and she isn’t sure what it’s supposed to mean, but she finds comfort in it. She always does. 

“What happened?” 

Jon feels a pain in his gut and Sansa can feel his tensing. “She died.”

Sansa moves her hand across his front, just to the place he’d felt the pain and it soothes him. “I’m sorry,” she whispers. They remain peacefully quiet for the rest of the day.

That night, he dreams of her. Those wild eyes and freckled skin. Her fiery hair. He can feel her warmth pressed against him, her back to his chest, his bone pressed against her ass. 

_You’re still moving!_

_Was I? I didn’t notice that time._

His hand pulls her closer and he digs his nose into the back of her neck as he thrusts against her, rutting like an animal. 

He opens his eyes to the sight of a red mane surrounding him, brushing his face, his lips. It only takes a moment, but a moment longer than it should’ve, to realize he is pressed up against his sister. Jon flings himself onto his back, ripping his body away from her as if he were burnt by fire. He tries to calm his gasps, searching for what to do, but it is still dark and Sansa’s steady breathing tells him she is mercifully fast asleep. Another voice haunts him then.

_That love is something you won’t let yourself embrace, not the way you truly desire._

She’s wrong. He’s just a man who didn’t know what he was doing in his sleep. His body held hers because he was dreaming of another, that’s all. Jon sighs and turns his back to Sansa, resigning to find another cottage tomorrow. 

When he wakes again he sees light. The guilt of his actions in the night comes back to him and he is disgusted with himself. Then something shifts and he realizes that there is a hand on his stomach, dangerously low. Her body is pressed up against him and… He doesn’t believe it at first, but then she moves again. Her thighs are rubbing together in a steady rhythm against the back of his. 

Jon sits up roughly, tossing Sansa onto her back. She wakes, confused, but also oblivious.

“What it is?” she asks, rubbing her eyes. “What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing,” he insists. “Just a bad dream. I need to get some air.” Without looking at her he pulls on his boots and is out the door.

When he finds a sufficient place to sulk in the woods, Jon lowers himself onto a stump with a huff. His elbows find his knees and his hands cover his face. _What am I doing? What have I become? ___

____

All of the sins that he’s tried to push out of his mind come flooding back to him. The Red Woman. The fire he felt as he claimed her throat with his seed. And the thoughts of his sister he allowed while he did it. 

____

He knows he’s been too careless. Sleeping in her bed? He should have insisted on taking the floor whether she fought him on it or not. But he hadn’t even tried. The way he touches her, whenever he can. It isn’t right, and he knows it but his craven heart just lies telling him he wants her close so he can protect her. So, he won’t lose her again.

____

“Fucking bastard!” he shouts into the trees.

____

“Having a little trouble with the wife?” 

____

Jon whips around, standing with hand on hilt, but sees Tormund’s grinning face teasing back at him. He relaxes his defenses, but not his angst. Tormund approaches and slaps a great paw on Jon’s shoulder. 

____

“Go on, you can tell me. What’s got the baby crow so fussed?” 

____

Jon jerks away from him, in no mood. “I’m not a crow. Not anymore.”

____

Tormund sits on the stump Jon abandoned and begins to sharpen his blade, whistling a tune. After a few more moments of huffing, Jon turns to him. “I dreamt about Ygritte last night.” 

____

The large wilding man lowers his task and looks at Jon with sad kindness. “She was one hell of a woman.”

____

Jon sits now, on a smaller stump, making him look like even more of a child next to this man than usual. “I miss her, so much. Sometimes I think…”

____

“What?”

____

“Nothing, it’s foolish.”

____

“What isn’t when it comes to you?” Tormund winks at him and Jon smiles a little.

____

“It’s just, if I had died –”

____

“You did.”

____

“I meant, if I hadn’t come back then maybe I’d be with her again.” Jon lowers his head expecting a taunt. But it doesn’t come. Instead, Tormund reaches out and places his hand on the back of Jon’s neck giving him a comforting, yet painful jerk.

____

“You told me that when you died, there was nothing.” Jon looks at him. “She wasn’t there. She isn’t there. She’s here.” Tormund gestures around them. “In the trees, in the wind. And here.” The hand on his neck moves to Jon’s heart. “I know it hurts to remember. But it feels good, too. Doesn’t it?”

____

Jon nods, understanding. 

____

“You carry her with you. Do you think she enjoys watching you sulk alone in the woods? She’s with you. So, you need to live for her. Let her see you the way she’d want you to be. Hear her scolding you when you’ve fucked up. Hear her laughing at you when you make a fool of yourself. And feel her love when you love another, knowing that’s what she wants.” Jon flinches a little. 

____

“Otherwise you disrespect her. And when you do that, you ought to feel her wrath pouring down on you.” Tormund chuckles and punches Jon in the arm before standing, taking a piss, and walking back to the cottages.

____

When Jon finally returns, he is prepared to explain to Sansa that he doesn’t think they ought to share a bed anymore. He’ll tell her that she tosses around too much for him to get any rest. But before he reaches their door he sees Davos. 

____

He is standing with a man Jon doesn’t recognize, dark skinned and dressed in brown and gold robes with a flowery blue sash stretched from his shoulder to the sword at his side. The tortured look on both of their faces vanishes all thoughts of leaving Sansa’s side.

____


	10. The Ruby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa learn the truth about the attack on their ship.

Before Jon reaches Davos and his companion, Sansa is at his side. She’d seen them approach and knew that they weren’t bringing any good news. But she had to know. 

“It was the Boltons,” Davos begins. Sansa’s heart drops to her stomach but she doesn’t speak, needing to hear it all. Instead, Jon interrupts.

“Who are you?” he asks the man they don’t know.

“My name is Salladhor Saan. I was leading the attack.”

Jon rages, and turns to Davos for an explanation. 

“Please, Jon, I beg you. You need to hear what he has to say.” 

Sansa places a hand on Jon’s arm, pulling him slightly as if to express her preference in the matter. 

“Ramsay tracked us to Eastwatch and tortured their maester until he found out where we were going and which ship we took. Then he hired a band of pirates to meet us at the port.”

“My band of pirates,” Salladhor Saan clarifies. “We were given orders to capture the woman on board, and to burn the ship. He didn’t tell us who she was, or what he planned to do with her. Only how much he was going to pay. And that we would know her by her red hair.”

“He’ll know you failed,” Sansa frets. “He’ll know we got away.” She begins to look around, expecting Bolton soldiers to surround them at any moment. 

“No, my Lady,” the pirate continues. “You see, until my friend Davos came to speak with me, we thought we’d completed our mission. Two of my men are riding north as we speak to deliver the captive.” 

Confusion covers the faces of both Sansa and Jon. But when Davos looks down in shamed regret, it is Jon who gains clarity first and whispers, “Oh no.”

“It appears Lady Melisandre had not left the ship as we’d first suspected,” Davos explains. Sansa covers her mouth in horror. “When they boarded the ship, she was the only occupant. So, they took her and burned it to ash.” 

Jon’s face goes white. 

He’d been wrong about her. All wrong. He’d blamed her for his own weakness, trying to convince himself that she’d bewitched him in order to betray them when really, he was the traitor. He’d used her for his own sick pleasure and then felt relieved to pardon himself and abandon her during their escape. She’d brought him back from the dead. She’d offered peace of body and mind to Sansa when he couldn’t. She wasn’t trying to seduce him for her own gain. She saw what he was. And she’d offered to help him keep his own depravity from ruining his sister by letting him defile her instead. 

_What kind of monster am I?_

“Jon!”

Sansa’s inflection tells Jon that she’d called for him more than once. When he brings his attention back to her he can see guilt in her eyes. _No. This is my fault. I put doubt in your mind. It was all me._ But Jon can’t speak. Even now, he is too much of a coward to face his sins.

“Jon, what are we going to do? He’ll torture her.”

“I don’t believe she will betray us, my Lady,” Davos offers, but Sansa turns on him with fury.

“That wasn’t my concern! You have no idea what he is capable of. We can’t just let her be given to him in my place. I won’t allow it! _Jon!_ ” Sansa still gets no reply so she turns to the pirate. “Can you stop them? Get to them before they reach Winterfell?”

“I have already sent riders, but I don’t know if it will be possible.”

“Then send ravens! You must know where they will be stopping. Please!” Sansa’s voice begins to break. She can’t let this happen, not because of her.

“My Lady,” Davos offers gently. “We will do everything we can. I swear it. But you don’t know the Red Woman as well as I do. Perhaps we needn’t be so worried.” Sansa gapes at him, entirely offended. “I’ve seen her drink poison that should have killed her. I’ve seen her birth demons that could kill a man surrounded by guards. Something tells me that if she was captured by this lot,” he gestures to his friend, “then she intended to be captured.”

“But why?” Sansa begs.

“I suspect, in order to protect you.” 

At this, Jon storms off. He can’t tolerate anymore. Davos spoke the words to Sansa but, in truth, they were meant for him. And he knows it. Everything keeps slipping away from his control and understanding. _The Prince that was Promised_. What a bunch of horse shit. All he’s managed to do is get himself and everyone around him harmed or killed. He isn’t a hero. He isn’t even a man. 

He ran from the Night King. He ran from Ramsay Bolton. He ran from his own shame, but not before he’d used the woman like a whore while being unable to even look at her. And for what? So that he could hide behind his sister's skirts by day and try to get under them at night? Bile began to rise in his throat and the beast that lived inside him roared with all the hatred he’d ever known. 

Jon is running again. By the time his legs begin to burn he is so far from the rest of them that he doesn’t recognize anything around him. He falls to his knees and screams curses, punching the dirt below him. When he’s exhausted himself, throat hoarse, he collapses onto his bloodied hands, ashamed of the tears that cover his face. 

Eventually, he falls back, pulling fists of earth with him. In one hand, something hard is pressing into his palm. Shifting the dirt, he tries to see the object through his blurry vision. It is a stone, red and almost glowing. A ruby.


	11. Dawn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon gets a pep talk

“Do you know what that is?”

Jon startles and turns to see Sandor Clegane standing against a nearby tree. He hadn’t heard him approach. Or maybe he’d been there already and Jon just hadn’t notice the huge man, too wrapped up in his own anguish. The shock of his presence and the crisis still pounding through his mind leaves no room for Jon to remember to be embarrassed that there was a witness to his fit.

“A gem?” Jon sounds like a child.

“A ruby.” The man moves closer to him and Jon finds a way to pull himself off the ground. 

“Okay.”

Sandor smiles at him slightly and takes a seat on a fallen log and gestures for Jon to join him. With no better ideas, he does. 

“When Rhaegar Targaryen battled Robert Baratheon at the Trident, Robert smashed his breast plate with a hammer, killing him and scattering rubies from the armor into the ford.” 

Jon knows this, as all children growing up on the stories of Robert’s Rebellion did. But he doesn’t see the point in contributing. 

“Six rubies have washed ashore, collected by the brothers here. They believe that there will be a seventh, the holy number, as a sign from the gods. They’ve waited and searched for it like the coming of the dawn. And you’ve just found it.”

Jon turns the stone in his fingers, frowning. Then he holds it out to the man next to him.

“Here,” he says, uninterested, and Sandor chuckles.

“You keep it,” he replies. “There’s enough superstition around here as it is. I’d rather not stoke the flames of lonely zealots by giving them some bloody rock. I prefer to keep a low profile.”

Jon sighs and closes his hand over the object.

“You gonna keep screaming at the trees, or have you had enough?” 

Jon doesn’t answer, but instead poses a question of his own. “So, you’re not a believer, then?”

“I don’t put much thought into the gods. Never seemed all that useful. But when the Elder Brother found me, I was at the worst I’d ever been. Hate had kept me going in this world and that let me believe that it didn’t matter what I did. I was a killer. Nothing more. Being a man of honor never mattered to me because as soon as I found the justice I sought I was going welcome the damning that waited for me. And so, I sought to earn it as much as I could. I was alone in the world, completely alone. A walking doom.” He chuckles again.

“Until your sister. She taught me what it meant to care about something other than my own self-pity. I didn’t want to. All I wanted was to fetch a price for her and get the fuck out of this hateful country. But when I took her to the Twins, she watched from across the river all day. She wouldn’t take her eyes off the towers, afraid that what she loved would slip away from her again. I taunted her about it. But I was just envious.” He shakes his head, pained with regret.

“I’d never known what that was like, never had anybody want to see me again so badly it hurt. When we’d gotten there too late, and she watched as they paraded your brother around with his direwolf’s head sown to his body, I knew it was my punishment for being such a cruel coward. The first thing she ever knew of me was that I’d killed her friend, a boy who’d committed no crime other than witnessing Joffrey’s weakness. And I'd just brought her more pain, again. She didn't deserve any of it. She was good.”

He is quiet for a moment and Jon isn’t sure how much more he can take.

“From that day on I knew that I had to protect her. Bring her back to safety, somehow. But I failed. The last hope I had for some glimpse of redemption was for her to kill me. But she didn’t. When I came here the brothers told me it was never too late, to be something else. To stop killing and start helping. But Arya was the one to show me the way. I’ll never be able to make things right for her, but if there is anything I can do to try, I’ll do it. And that means helping her family as well.”

Jon looks at him then, for first time since he’d pulled himself from the dirt. 

“I don’t know why you lot are hiding out here, but I recon you’ll be needing all the help you can get once you face what’s waiting for you. I figure I’ve done enough hiding out myself. So, if you’ll take it, I’d like to offer my help.” 

Jon examines the stone in his hand again and decides it is time to stop feeling sorry for himself. There are people in this world who need him and that is all that matters anymore. It is time to embrace the monster and unleash it in their defense. To face whatever comes and fight for as long as he can. 

“We are going to the Vale. Sansa thinks we'll be safe there. We won’t. But we’ll have an army. And then we will take back what’s ours.”

“When do we leave?”


	12. The Mockingbird

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Baelish must answer for his crimes.

Jon doesn’t sleep with Sansa anymore. He doesn’t sleep at all. Instead he waits. And plans. All day and all night he sits alone by the water imagining all the ways he will exact his revenge. On Ramsay, on Cersei, on Walder Frey, on the fucking Night King himself. He knows he will die, but he’ll take them all with him when he does. Only this time he won’t come back. 

Sansa finishes her breakfast and as she heads back to the cottage she considers trying to talk to Jon, but she won’t. He’s left her alone and she knows why. It’s her fault they are all in this situation. If she’d just followed him to Winterfell when he’d asked, she would have died, but it would have been for a purpose. How could she have hoped that there would be a chance at happiness and peace after all she’d been through. She is selfish. She always has been. 

_You’re not a princess and there is no knight coming to defend your honor._

Just then, Sansa’s heart fills with revived hope as she sees her. The great blonde warrior rides through the marsh on a magnificent white steed, beautiful shining armor donning them both, and she is flanked by ten knights on either side. Riding in formation behind her, is Yohn Royce, her uncle Brynden the Blackfish, and… Petyr Baelish. 

“My Lady,” Brienne of Tarth bows from her mount. The four familiar faces lower themselves from their horses and approach. 

Sansa glances at Littlefinger, but only for a moment before addressing the others. “Thank you for coming my Lords.”

“Of course, my Lady,” Lord Royce offers with a bow. But the Blackfish takes her by surprise as he pulls her into an embrace.

“Sansa, my kin.” He pulls back from her but remains grasping her shoulders. “I’m so sorry I did not protect your mother at the Red Wedding. I ran, like a coward. I can only ask for your forgiveness and for you to allow me to offer my services to you now.”

“Your uncle has retaken the Tully forces,” Brienne explains. “They await you in the Eyrie, along with the Knights of the Vale.” 

Baelish does not speak, knowing better, and Sansa provides the others with a practiced smile.

“You’ll all be hungry,” she announces with propriety. “Please, follow the path to the septry and you will be provided with rest and food.” 

“There is no need, my Lady,” Lord Royce responds. “We have ample provisions, but we will leave you to prepare for the journey and speak with your lady in peace.” They all head off to make camp, including Baelish, leaving Sansa and Brienne alone.

“What is he doing here?” She asks quietly, trying desperately not to sound ungrateful.

“I apologize, my Lady but he is Lord Protector still and I thought it would delay our plans to try and deal with him on my own. Besides, I thought you might want to take command on that account. I have kept a close eye. I do not believe at this time he will betray you, if for no other reason than he seems to be aware that his position, and neck, rely solely on his allegiance with you. I sensed no love for him from his people, aside from the young Lord, which could be a problem.”

“I’ll handle him when we get to the Eyrie. Robin is easy to manage. We have bigger problems.”

“My Lady?”

“Brienne I’d appreciate not needing to ask you again–”

“Apologies, Sansa. What happened?”

“We've learned the attack was ordered by the Boltons. The pirates took Lady Melisandre, believing she was me. It won’t be long before he discovers they were mistaken.”

Sansa can see that Brienne finds this less concerning than she does, but she nods her understanding anyway. 

“When we’ve secured your arrival in the Eyrie, we can send an envoy to find out more.” 

_No,_ Sansa thinks. _We’ll do more than that._ She knows Ramsay won’t stop coming for her, and destroying whoever he can along the way. It is time to fight. But for now, she must find Jon.

***

Jon is sitting on his usual log of driftwood, sharpening Long Claw. He’s become something of a permanent fixture there, only knowing how to pass the time by stoking the flames of the beast. It is better this way. He won’t hurt her if he isn’t near her, and he has no desire to tame the savage he is grooming within. So, it is with unknowable peril that Petyr Baelish decides to approach him alone.

“Lord Commander,” the foolish man addresses. 

But Jon isn’t startled. His grip tightens on the hilt of his weapon and he smiles at the gift. A prayer answered. When he rises and turns toward the man, his mouth waters in preparation for the first course in his long-awaited feast of blood. He savors the sight of him for a moment before beginning his slow approach.

“I have brought the Knights of the Vale to aid you and Lady Sansa,” he tries. But Jon doesn’t hear him. The beast’s snarl is all that fills his ears. 

He takes another step and smiles again as his prey cowers backward. _I hope he runs. I want this to last._ But Baelish doesn’t run. Too quickly, Jon has his hand around the Littlefinger’s throat. He squeezes until the life is nearly gone from the man’s purple face and then he lightens the force. Baelish gasps, bringing life back into his lungs at last. And then Jon tightens his grip again. 

The sight is glorious, arousing even. It is the truest pleasure he has ever known. But he won’t allow this man to die until he begs for it. Jon moves closer, licking the sweat from his lip before baring his teeth. He allows the desire for blood to fill his body, gazing longingly at the bruises his fingers have started to form around the man’s neck, then throws him to the ground by his throat. 

Baelish gasps again, choking and gripping at his own neck. Spit and snot fly from his face as he coughs and sputters, crawling backward from his attacker. Jon kicks him hard in the gut and Baelish flies onto his back, croaking, “Please!”

Just as Jon is about to lower his heavy boot onto the man’s face he hears Sansa scream, “JON!” He's nearly unable to stop himself, but then she is pulling him back from the brink, her touch the only thing that pierces through the madness. 

He looks at her then, and the plea in her eyes reminds him that this man’s life isn’t his to take. He snarls back at the wretched thing now trying to get to its feet. Sansa pulls him back further and takes her place in front of him, facing the man that arranged her torturous union. 

When Baelish is finally able to stand and speak it is only with a pathetic whisper. “Sansa, please. Allow me to explain.”

“Did you know about Ramsay?” Her voice is so lethal it shocks even Jon. “If you didn’t know, you’re an idiot. If you did know, you’re my enemy.” She takes a step closer to him but Jon isn’t worried. This small creature is no threat now, and he is enjoying watching him tremble before them. 

“Would you like to hear about our wedding night?”

Jon turns to her, feeling his heart sink, and recognizing truly now that this conquest belongs to her. So, he stands down, awaiting her command. 

“He never hurt my face. He needed my face, the face of Ned Stark's daughter.” The coward doesn’t respond and she takes another step as Jon watches him squirm. “But the rest of me, he did what he liked with the rest of me, as long as I could still give him an heir.” Another step and at this Baelish finally moves back.

“What do you think he did?” 

Baelish glances at Jon and then back to her before mumbling, “I can’t begin to contemplate–” 

“What do you think he did to me?” she presses, and Baelish just closes his mouth.

She waits. Jon doesn’t, shifting his sword.

“My sister asked you a question,” he growls.

“He beat you?” Baelish offers weakly.

“Yes, he enjoyed that. What else do you think he did?” 

“Sansa,” he begs but she won’t relent.

“What else?”

“Did he cut you?”

Jon isn’t sure he can continue to restrain himself but then his Sansa’s words punch him brutally.

“Maybe you did know about Ramsay all along.”

“I didn’t know.”

“I thought you knew everyone’s secrets.” At this, his eyes meet Jon’s and he can’t hold back any longer. 

Sansa doesn’t stop him as he charges forward, yanking the man to him by his collar. 

“Tell me,” he roars. “Tell me why I shouldn’t rip your skull from your neck.” He pulls his face closer to him, slowly, as a lover might approach a kiss. “Beg me,” he commands.

“Because I can give you what you want,” he strains. 

“Aye,” Jon continues. “I know you can. Because what I want is a shower of your blood.”

“Jon,” she instructs finally. “Let him go.” 

He turns back to her, pleading, but her eyes are sure. “Not yet. I’m not finished.”

Reluctantly, Jon yields. Sansa stares at the man for a moment. She considers illustrating every perverse cruelty she's suffered because of him, letting Jon hear it too so that he will make him suffer far more than he already intends, but then decides he isn't worth it. 

“Say it," she sneers, giving him a look that proves just how small she thinks he is. "Just get it over with. Spell out your little plan. What is it that you _think_ we need from you?” Sansa’s voice remains unwavering in her hatred and doubt. 

But Baelish doesn’t address her. Instead, he turns to Jon. 

“I can tell you the truth.” 

Jon scoffs but his prey continues, lacking the caution of a wiser man. 

“I can tell you about your mother.”


	13. The Quiet Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa leave the Quiet Isle and head for the Vale.

“He’s lying," Jon insists, repetitively. 

“Obviously.”

“He’s just trying to save his own neck.”

“I know.”

“Sansa, he’s trying to manipulate you. _Again!_ ”

At this she turns on him. “Jon, I don’t need you to educate me on Littlefinger. So just stop."

He sighs, but hears her.

"Besides, it's you he's targeting this time,” she reminds him.

“Why won’t you let me kill him, then?”

“Well, for one thing, he’s the Lord Protector of the Vale. We need the Vale, we need to get to the Eyrie, and I don’t have time to explain a murder to the Lords and Knights who’ve come to help us do that. Just be patient, Jon. Keep a cool head, if you can..." Her meaning is clear but he can't be bothered with finding offense.

Sansa tries a softer angle. "Aren't you at all curious about what he has to say?" But Jon's look of disdain halts that route. "We need to get to the Eyrie. Then, from there...” her eyes drift off with a strange gleam he’s never seen. “We’ll make a plan.”

Jon sits on her bed with a dissatisfied slump as she continues her preparations for the journey they will set out on in the morning. 

"I'm not going to forget this," he insists in a last effort.

"I know, Jon."

When it is clear that she has ended the debate, once and for all, Jon moves to leave but she stops him when her hand grabs onto his.

He looks back at her and the maternal scowl has melted from her face, replaced by a timid longing that seizes him fully. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” 

She’s never asked him to explain why he'd decided to change their sleeping arrangement. And she doesn’t offer any reason for why she decides to challenge it now. But when she looks pleadingly into his eyes and whispers, “ _please,_ ” he knows he is defeated.

***

In the darkness, she looks at him and he looks back at her. They don’t speak for longer than ought to be comfortable for two people staring into each other’s eyes as they lay in bed together, but there is something being communicated between them. Something intense, and burning, and they can both feel it. Jon knows he should look away but instead he dares himself to remain in this trance a little longer. 

And a little longer.

 

Finally, she pulls his hand into hers, resting the grasp between their hearts. 

“I want to fight, Jon,” she whispers and her breath washes over his face like a sacred prayer.

“We will,” he promises.

“We might die.” It isn’t fear in her voice. Only gentle acknowledgement.

“Yes,” he responds with rising heat. Jon moves his hand to her face and pulls her closer. “But first we’ll live.”

Sansa closes her eyes, taking a deep breath and leaning her face into his hand for a wonderful moment, before opening them again with renewed force. His pulse begins to throb as he watches her lips part, whispering his name, before they come together with his.

The kiss, like their stare, lasts too long. They are motionless against each other, neither breaking away nor pressing forward. Only holding. They begin to breathe in sync and Jon feels her body tremble at the same moment his does. Sansa holds on longer, knowing that everything will change once either of them moves. She knows that change will be dangerous, no matter what it means, but she isn’t ready to face that yet. So, she waits just a little longer. 

And a little longer. 

 

Finally, she loses her grip, and pulls back her face. She looks at him, afraid of what he will do, knowing he’ll likely leave her alone once again. But he doesn’t move. He just looks at her desperately as though he will fall apart if she doesn't hold onto him. 

Wordlessly, she takes the hand holding her face, pressing a soft kiss into his palm, and wraps it around her as she turns over, cradling her back against him. 

When she wakes in the morning, they are in the same position. His hand rests on her stomach and his forehead is pressed into the back of her neck. She puts her hand on top of his and holds it to her securely. 

Jon stirs, and she can feel it. But when he whispers a concerned, “Sansa,” she presses harder on the hand threatening to slide away from her.

“Please,” she begs him, softly. “Please don’t.” With that, he pulls her back even tighter against him, as she slides their grasp upward to rest softly under her breast. 

“I’ll never hurt you,” he promises with his lips against her body. 

Tears fall from her eyes and she can’t answer him with anything other than the hitch in her breath.

Hours later, after savoring the quiet connection of their bodies, they are finally pulled from the embrace by a gentle knock on the door. Podrick announces through the wood that they will be leaving shortly and the siblings rise to begin their journey.

 

Their final preparations, as well as their breakfast, continues in this secure and knowing silence. The Knights and all their guards ready the horses as Sandor Clegane rides up to join them. Brienne gathers, by the wary look he gives her, that he is unsure whether Sansa has informed her of even his presence, much less his pledge to join them. She offers a pointed nod to him for clarification and he returns it with respect.

Just before they mount, Sansa pulls Jon aside to her horse and tells him she has something to give him. He watches as she opens a large satchel and pulls out a pelted cloak. She hands it to him and shows him the leather straps with the direwolf sigil etched into them. 

“I made this for you. It’s like the one Father used to wear. As near as I can remember.”

Jon stares at it deeply before returning his burning eyes to hers and says, “Thank you, Sansa.”

 

They ride side-by-side through the marsh toward the mainland, flanked by the Knights of the Vale, with Ser Davos Seaworth, Brynden the Blackfish, and Lord Bronze Yohn Royce leading the way. Behind them, rides Sandor Clegane and Tormund Giantsbane. Lady Brienne of Tarth and her squire, Podrick Payne, bring up the rear to surveil Littlefinger, who rides just ahead of them. 

They journey onward, ready to face whatever may come.


	14. The Vale of Arryn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon begin preparing for war.

As soon as they arrive in the Eyrie, both Jon and Sansa get to work on their preparations. Jon prepares for war. Sansa prepares for what comes after. 

 

Sansa spends much of her time with the Lords of the Vale, charming them and offering advice on proper precautions for the cold, as many of their people will be wintering in the North. For those who won’t, she begins organizing a recovery effort for after the war. 

She also makes her plans to marry Robin Arryn, as soon as Ramsay falls. Sweetrobin, Defender of the Vale and Warden of the East, will need to ride North with them so that the alliance can be made immediately once the war is won. The sickly boy is fearful of the journey, but Sansa spends time with him every evening telling him stories of the great lands in the North and suggests they work together to find a good location for a Moon Door in the castle. 

“We can make bad men fly there,” Sansa tempts. “If you’ll show me how.” 

“I can show you! It’s easy!” The child Lord beams at his future wife before offering, “We could practice here. With _my_ Moon Door.”

“Perhaps, if we have time, my love. Putting things in order for both the war and our wedding is quite a lot to be getting on with just now. But once all that is finished, we can spend all day watching men fly if you’d like. Does that sound nice?” Sansa combs his clammy hair with her fingers, revealing no hint of insincerity. In truth, if loving and caring for him for the rest of her life is the trade-off for safety and freedom from Ramsey, she welcomes it. 

“But war is boring. Weddings are boring. I want to make the bad men fly!”

 _Me too,_ Sansa thinks to herself as she continues to soothe the boy to sleep. “Soon, my love. Soon.” _All the bad men._

 

Jon instructs the Knights of the Vale on the ins and outs of Winterfell. Likely, Ramsay will remain behind the walls and a siege of the castle is said to be nearly impossible. _Nearly._ Jon knows the castle well. He knows its vulnerabilities. And, he knows a giant. 

The Blackfish has become quite impressed with Jon’s military skills, as well as his class of wilding friends. 

“You remind me so much of Robb,” he tells Jon one evening after the war council has retired. Jon can’t help but allow himself some pride in this. 

“If I live through this winter,” he admits to his brother’s great uncle, “I’m aiming at the Twins next. The North Remembers.”

The silver-maned man pats Jon on the back like the son he refused to ever father. Jon enjoys spending his time with Brynden far more than any of the other generals in his war. While the Blackfish is no blood of Jon’s, he is the blood of Sansa and Arya. He is the blood of his brothers, too. In this moment, with so much of his family lost, Jon finds himself thinking of Catelyn. He wonders whether, if he’d been there to join his brother to fight instead of taking the Black, she might have found a way to know him. Forgive him for being born a bastard. 

“So,” the Blackfish intercedes into these reveries. “Since it’s only us, now. Tell me, man to man, what is your plan for Littlefinger?” The look on the seasoned soldier’s face resembles a mischievous youth looking for trouble, even if only vicariously.

Jon considers whether he should be confiding in him, or anyone, about his intentions. But it has been some time since he’d been offered such comradery that Jon gives the man his trust.

“I take it word has spread of our scrap on the Quiet Isle?”

“Don’t know anything about that. But I know Littlefinger, all too well. And I know he sold Sansa to Roose Bolton, the man who murdered my family in order to help him solidify his theft of Catelyn’s home. _Gods,_ the things I’ve heard about his demented spawn. What Sansa must have gone through.” Brynden’s face is so hardened now that Jon can finally see why people fear him. 

“I just figured he’d be a problem, needing taken care of. Why do you think I’m here? The Knights of the Vale could easily handle this war alone, and probably suffer very little loss now with you leading them. But if Littlefinger is pulling the strings, we could all end up bending the knee to Lord Bastard Bolton himself before winter's over. Meaning no offence.” Jon just smiles, appreciating the shared despise of those who’ve brought harm to his family. 

“I almost killed him," Jon admits before emptying his cup. "I would have, if Sansa hadn’t stopped me. She believed it was best that we keep him alive for his influence in the Vale. And because he told me he has some information that I’m looking for.”

The Blackfish sighs, sincerely. “Women have such burdens. Not only must they endure us, but they have to think for us too. But it was the right decision. I never would’ve fucking made it, though. That’s for sure.”

Jon sneers, “Aye, I wasn’t exactly able to concede.” At this, the Blackfish’s interest is peaked again. “Littlefinger was promised his life, in exchange for guaranteeing a smooth allegiance with House Arryn and the Knights of the Vale. But he’s also got to deliver on this information, which he claims proof of is residing in Winterfell. So, he will be riding North with us. Then, after the war is won, he’s promised to dig it up.”

“You feeling generous enough to tell an old man what this mystery intelligence regards?” He offers Jon a refill of ale with a hopeful, yet unassuming grin. 

Jon takes a long drink from the mug. “It doesn’t matter.” But before Brynden can get too disappointed he adds, “I’m not taking him to Winterfell to hear his lies. And Sansa will be securing her own allegiance to House Arryn when she marries the Lord of the Eyrie. So, I suppose once the war is won, there won’t be all that much use for the man.” 

The Blackfish’s beard widens with his wicked grin and he simply states, “Lots of casualties in a war. Troublesome thing.” He lifts his mug to Jon who meets it with his own.

“Aye. Simply dreadful.”


	15. Faith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa talks to Jon about the last time she was in the Eyrie.

When all work has been finished for the day, he finds her in the High Hall staring down into the deadly aperture on the floor. 

“How are the plans coming along?” she asks without facing him.

Jon moves quietly to his sister and places a gentle hand on her back. 

“It won’t be long, now.” He knows she is impatient to get things moving and he is as well. 

They’ve had very little time alone together since leaving the respite of the Quiet Isle and he misses being able to touch her. Sansa’s warmth is the only thing that soothes the ever-growing beast within. They haven’t spoken of their last night as man and wife. There is no need. The connection between them is something beyond what could be formed into words and trying, they both silently fear, might rip it away.

“This is where he pushed Aunt Lysa to her death,” she begins slowly. 

Sansa had informed Jon about Petyr Baelish’s crime so that they would have cause to bring him to trial when the time called for it. But she’d never gone into detail about his motivations, nor her part in his escape from justice. 

Jon looks down into the darkness of night. At this hour, the jagged mountains are invisible making the view look like a bottomless pit. A passage into the darkness that still haunts him. He looks away, unsteadied by the thought, and finds the light again in her image. The soft skin of her face glows in the candle light and he longs to stroke it.

“I’d been in the courtyard that day, trying to build a snow castle that looked like our home, when he approached me. We were finally alone and I asked him why he'd really killed Joffrey. I wanted to know his true plan for me, now that I was in his debt, but then he spoke of my mother. I found his words comforting, at first. He said that he'd loved her more than I could ever know.” Sansa’s voice quakes slightly and Jon’s press firms up against her. 

“He asked me what we do to those who’ve hurt the ones we love, given the chance, and I felt hope for the first time since Joffrey…” The image of her father’s head leaving his body is too much, so she shakes it away and continues. “But then he touched me, and that hope I felt turned into something else. Something I didn't know how to listen to yet. He pulled his fingers through my hair and told me that I was more beautiful than she ever was... and then he kissed me.”

Jon feels his stomach lurch and he looks back into the pit to find his peace.

“I pushed him away, but Aunt Lysa had been standing on the ramparts and seen. Since the day of my arrival with him she’d been suspicious of our relationship, crazed with a jealousy I was too naive and stupid to understand. She screamed at me once, asking me what I’d let him do with my body. Demanding to know if I was pregnant. I just thought it was her own demented love for him putting ideas into her mind. But I should have seen it then, what he really wanted.”

“Sansa, you were a child,” he tries.

She moves away, finally pulling her eyes from the hole, and sits on the stone ledge. Jon follows.

“She called for me to meet her here. She grabbed me by the hair and pushed me down toward the opening, calling me a whore. But then he came. He stopped her, telling her she was silly and that he’d only ever loved one woman. She calmed, letting me go, and smiled into his eyes like a lovesick fool. And then he pushed her through.”

Jon wants to pull her into his arms, but he senses that she doesn’t want that right now, so instead he offers, “It wasn’t your fault, Sansa.”

At this she lowers her head, remembering Lady Waynwood telling her the same words. “He told everyone it was a suicide, but the great Lords saw right through him. The Lady of the Vale dies only days after she marries a money-lender and whoremonger with foreign blood. It was obvious. Even as mad as she was, they knew she would never leave Robin unprotected.

“At the time, everyone still believed I was Alayne. They brought me in as a witness during his trial and I revealed to them the truth of who I was. That I was Sansa Stark… I told them Lord Baelish rescued me from King’s Landing and that he was protecting me, trying to get me home. I said Lysa had seen him kiss me, but that it was only on the cheek, and that she was so overcome with madness and jealousy that she’d thrown herself through the Moon Door.”

Jon says nothing, only watches his fists folded in his lap. Then Sansa stands and without looking at him says, “I think I’ll go to bed now. Good night Jon.” 

But before she moves out of reach, Jon’s hand finds its way to hers. He rises, pulling her back to him with a determined authority. He looks like Father, then. Just for a moment. She can’t take it so she pulls back, looking away. “What?” she demands.

He stands before her silently until the quiet forces her eyes back to him. 

“Thank you, Sansa” he says purposely. 

She squints at him, not understanding, but he moves closer with a hardness that makes her tremble. 

“Everything you did, everything that was done to you… _thank you_ for surviving. For being wise enough to do what you had to do, so that you could come back to me.”

With these words, she falters and collapses into his embrace, crying. “Everything has been wrong for so long,” she releases. “Father dying, Robb. Mother. I lost all hope, Jon. The innocence I had as a little girl was ripped from me long before my wedding night. All of my faith…”

“Shhh,” he soothes, stroking her back. “I know. It’s all right sweet sister. We've both lost so much. Our family, our faith, we did what we had to do. But we have each other now.”

“No Jon,” she intercepts. He stiffens and she pulls back to look into his eyes. “I still have faith. In _you._ ”

He wants to challenge her, to beg her not to put her trust in him. He wants to recount for her how many times he’s failed. That he’s failed _her_. He wants to show her that he isn’t the hero she’s relying on him to be. But when he looks into her beautiful blue eyes, wet and strong, everything else falls away. 

“I’ll never let anyone touch you again,” he promises selfishly. “I’ll protect you, I promise.” 

Their bodies are pressed so closely that he can feel her belly rise and fall with each breath. He can feel her fire burn into him and he lifts a hand to her face. _Please,_ he begs silently. _Kiss me again._

As if hearing his plea, Sansa’s eyes fall to his open lips and he feels her pull in a quick breath. But the loud croak of the outer hall door rips them apart from each other once more. When Pod arrives in the room with them, he is too anxious to notice their shared blush. 

“My Lady, My Lord,” he addresses, but Jon doesn’t have time to point out that he isn't noble before Pod is presenting him a scroll with urgency. 

“A rider arrived with this tonight.” 

Jon looks at it and his vision of everything else around him goes black, tunneling down onto one red seal stamped with a flayed man. 


	16. The Hunt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay sends terms to Jon

[X]

 

To the Deserter and Bastard Jon Snow,

 

Thank you for the gift. I do love red heads. She’s been an enjoyable distraction while my beloved wife has been away. Though, I do miss her terribly. Will you tell her for me, Bastard? Despite my better efforts, the worn-out priestess has proven no match for the ecstasy of your sweet sister’s cunt. 

I declare you a traitor, Bastard, and hereby sentence you to die. You allowed thousands of Wildlings past the wall. You broke your sworn oath to the Night’s Watch and deserted your post. You have betrayed your own kind. You have betrayed the North. Winterfell is mine, Bastard. Come and face my justice.

I want my bride back. 

Send her to me, Bastard, and I will execute you quickly. I will pardon the treasonous lords supporting your rebellion and not trouble your Wilding lovers any further. Keep her from me, and I will ride north and slaughter every Wildling man, woman, and babe living under your false promise of refuge. You will watch and I skin them living. You will watch as my dogs defile and devour the red witch. You will watch as my soldiers take turns raping your sister and then I will break her, bone by bone. You will live only as long as it takes for her screams die out. 

Then I will flay you slowly and hang your corpse at the gates of Castle Black, a testimony to the fate of all deserters under my rule. 

 

Ramsay Bolton  
Lord of Winterfell and Warden of the North

 

***

 

“His father’s dead,” Sansa realizes to herself in a distant whisper.

Jon remains silent and still.

“His step-mother and her baby, too. Ramsay killed them.”

Her awareness finally resurfaces in the room and she looks at her brother. But he is too terrifying to behold. All that she’s ever known of him has vanished and been replaced with an eerily still, carnal rage. She moves, only slightly toward him, but he glides back with a stealth that possesses no humanity. Then, having no sight of her, Jon pushes toward the door.

“Jon!” she cries out brutally.

But he is gone. Into the night, out to kill. To hunt and ravage. To bloody his hands on whatever he may find in order to satiate this burning lust until the sacred day of reckoning mercifully comes. 

 

Sansa takes the letter to Brienne. “I’m worried about Jon. He’s left the castle and he… he didn’t look right.” She tries to tell herself that he just needs to be alone, to soothe himself the way angry men often do. She tries to believe that he will be all right. But Brienne can see her concern betraying that belief.

“I’ll track him,” Brienne assures calmly, obliging a request not given. “I’ll stay close enough to intervene if necessary, but otherwise let him do what he needs to do. And then I’ll bring him back to you.”

Sansa’s sigh offers her gratitude and Brienne sets to her task.

 

Jon can see easily in the black of night. His senses are sharp. Every scent and sound reveals itself to his waiting predation. 

_Smoke. A mile west._

His movements are agile and silent. Each protrusion on the steep cliff rises to meet his steps with grace and belonging. His hands caress the rocks like a patient lover. The depth of his breath only a mute mediation. 

By the time the poor wretch knows what is happening it has already happened. Jon makes quick artistry of the bondage, then rests by his captive’s fires to admire his work. Straining against the gag, Bolton’s messenger groans his plea for mercy, but Jon’s gaze offers no promise of tomorrow. 

“I always thought your banners were repulsive,” Jon begins, before sinking his teeth into the flesh of the game his prisoner had intended to be his supper. The rabbit can’t satisfy his craving though, so he tosses the rest of it into the core of the fire, letting it burn to ash. “Perhaps I’ve been of too narrow a mind.”

When Jon pulls out a knife, the bound man quakes. “Have you pissed yourself?” Jon asks casually, cleaning his nails with the blade. “Smells like it. Ah… that’s alright. I understand.” His voice is gentle and queer, almost purring. “I’ve known fear before. It’s natural, nothing to be ashamed of.” 

Then he rises to his feet and the man lets out a desperate moan. “Do you want to know what scares me?” Jon steps closer, patiently, then reaches down and lifts his catch onto its feet. He spreads the man's back against the cliff and presses his arm firmly across his throat. Leaning in close he asks again, “I said, do you want to know what scares me?” 

The man flinches away, begging against the barrier in his mouth. Jon lifts the blade, sticking the pointy end against the soft socket of his victim’s eye. 

“It scares me to know just how much I’m going to enjoy this.”

“My Lord,” she calls out to him, formerly and void of rebuke.

“I’m no Lord,” he replies, unsurprised and unyielding. 

“Your sister thanks you for capturing this prisoner and asks that I offer you escort in bringing him back for questioning.”

“There is no need for that.”

“Lady Sansa insists.” 

Her name. The one beacon left in his darkness. And so he relents.


	17. Honor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa conducts interrogations.

Brienne enters the High Hall, one fist holding the only remaining ropes around the Bolton messenger’s hands. Her other fist remains in a tight warning around the hilt of her sword. But the threat isn’t for the terrified man she escorts. It is for the still fuming man who lags behind them.

Sansa takes in the sight with measured stillness. Brienne sets the prisoner aside and addresses her lady. “Your brother thought it would be of some use to question the rider about the Boltons, my Lady.”

“Thank you, Brienne. I look forward to hearing what he has to say.” Her glare turns to her remorseless brother, but his eyes are still locked on his target. “That will be all, Jon.” She gains his attention at last and his challenge of her dismissal falls lifeless against her scorn. He barely begins to open his mouth when she finishes, “Good night.”

He storms off and Sansa turns to the man who’d delivered Ramsay’s words, now guarded sufficiently by Brienne. There is no time to exchange details or shared concern between the two women so she begins her interrogation. 

“Remove his gag, please.”

Brienne does and Sansa faces him with a manifested air of composed authority.

“What is your name, Ser?” 

“N.. Nage, my Lady.”

Sansa doesn’t recognize him. But her time in the locked tower at Winterfell left little opportunity for proper introductions. 

“Do you know who I am?”

“Yes,” he answers with regret. Then he raises his face to look at her and the pity he holds for her makes her queasy. But he turns his attention to Brienne. “And you as well, my Lady.”

Brienne starts to correct his address but then recognition of the man overwhelms the habit.

“You were one of the men who escorted Ser Jaime and me back to King’s Landing.” The man only nods. “You fired on the bear? With a crossbow.”

“Not as skillfully as required. I apologize.”

“Skillfully enough to allow my escape.” 

He lowers his head, and Sansa watches Brienne narrow her eyes slightly. Despite her confused curiosity, it will need to be a story for another day, so she turns her attention back to the messenger.

“I have some questions for you about Lord Bolton. He knows we are coming?”

The man nods regretfully. 

“What else does he know?”

Nage whispers, “He…”

“Speak up, Ser,” Brienne demands and the man stands more at attention.

“He knows you have the Blackfish with you, and the Tully forces. And h.. he knows you plan to marry Lord Arryn.” This concerns her. She looks at Brienne who returns her glance with understanding. They will need to increase the number of guards with the boy at all times. 

“And Lady Melisandre, the Red Woman. Have you seen her?”

The flinch of pain in his face answers her question and Sansa moves closer, forgetting her intention to mask her anger. 

“What will you tell me of Lord Bolton’s strategy?”

The frightened man shivers in the hold of her eyes and promises, “Whatever I can. Lady Stark.”

 

***

Sansa storms into the war room and Jon is already deep in his cups. He doesn’t look at her, only scowls at his drink like a child who’s been denied an indulgent treat. But she has no interest in his brooding.

She presses her shaking hands into the table across from him, trying to steady her anger. Her tall form looms over him, casting a shadow over his dark face, and she begins.

“What. In the name. Of all seven –”

But he cut’s her off, mistakenly. “Sansa, don’t start.”

“Quiet!” she demands. “Look at me.”

He does and the sight is something to be feared, for sure. If he didn’t know better he’d think blood was about to come pouring out of her raging eyes. Jon straightens himself up, but remains quiet and awaits her wrath.

She takes a breath and a step back, not speaking again until she has fully gathered herself. Then she looks him in the eye with unfaltering direction.

“If you intend to endanger our efforts with your childish death wish again, then it is time for you to leave. I will finish this campaign without you. I recognize that you're angry, Jon. I’m angry too, but you have no right to behave with such indignity. Not anymore. And certainly not under the pretense of my defense. Do you understand me?” 

Jon is too afraid to even gesture, so he just remains quiet. 

Finally, after pacing a while in an attempt to expel some of this unproductive fury, she sits at the table across from him. She isn’t looking at him, but the disgusted look on her face has retreated some so he decides to try. “Sansa, I’m sorry.”

It takes all of her will not to roll her eyes back into another bout of admonishment, so instead she pushes them closed for a moment to refocus. “I need to speak with you about what we’ve learned from the Bolton's rider.”

Jon leans forward with intensity but her warning glance reminds him to stay level headed. He is a military man, not a beast. Not right now, at least. Not with her. So, he just listens with concentration.

“He intends to stay inside of Winterfell and force a siege, but he’s prepared to meet us in the field if needs be.” Jon only has a moment to be impressed with her command of discussing battle plans before she darkens with a more concerning expression. 

“The Karstarks, the Manderlys, and the Umbers have all sworn fealty to House Bolton and remain provisioned within the walls while the other houses face torture and starvation.” With this Sansa sighs, bringing her hand to press against her brow. The pain and sadness she holds for the Northern families that once served their father is not lost on Jon. He wants to comfort her but knows his place. 

“What else?” he requests of his commander.

“The Re- Lady Melisandre has been tortured day and night for information.” 

Jon lowers his head, shamefully. Solely because it is required, but with no blame occupying his voice he asks, “What has he been able to gather?”

“It’s not clear. He mostly spends his time with her alone, allowing his bannermen their turns with her while he sleeps. And this man you decided to… The rider is not a ranking member of Ramsay’s army. I believe he told me everything he could, but perhaps I’ll let you speak to him as well in order to ask what I wouldn’t have known to.”

“Yes,” he begs while trying to make it sound like compliance. She is quiet, uncomforted. So he tries something else. 

Slowly, Jon stands and moves around the table. With a deep exhalation, he lowers himself in front her onto one knee, whispering her name in confession. Despite herself she returns his pleading look. 

“I’m sorry for the way I acted. All of it. I'm sorry." Jon tries to find a way to make her understand how much he needs her. "From the first moment I saw you at Castle Black, I have relied on the sheer force of you to carry me through the darkness that took hold at my death. I almost lost myself. All of myself. And I'm still afraid it could happen." He places his hands on her legs, gripping slightly for fear of falling. "You could never know how grateful I am for your strength. I never deserved it. But I’ve been careless and selfish with your patience.” He pauses and then pulls her hands into his.

“I swear to you, from now on I will do whatever it takes to keep us together." He pauses as if trying to find the truth. "I don't want to die, Sansa. Not anymore. I promise. Truly, I am sorry.”

“Jon,” she relents finally, placing her other hand on his face. Why does he always have to be so full of anguish? “I love you.” 

Her words nearly crack him open. 

“Just stop being so bloody bull-headed, that's all. I don’t need you to charge forth and murder every man who’s ever had any proximity to the pain I’ve suffered. The list is too long.” He lowers his head, closing his eyes, but she lowers her hand from his cheek to his beard and lifts him back up to her again. 

“I only need you to murder one.”

Jon nods, pledging a silent vow, then arises, taking her hand and lifting her to her feet. He pulls her into his arms and lets his heart fill with a renewed honor, another gift from her. 


	18. The Pact

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon plays her game.

The time for war has come. 

The forces will ride north in the morning and everything has been well prepared. This doesn’t keep Sansa from inventing more anxiety for herself, though. When the stable master respectfully requests that Lady Stark allow him to get on with the task she’s set for him – inventorying the feed, again – she finally yields and decides to seek out Jon.

She finds him in his chamber going over battle plans on scrolls spread out across the desk. When he sees her at his door, he has to bite the inside of his mouth to keep from chuckling. 

“You were kicked out of the armory, weren't you?”

“No,” she defends with irritation. But then he gives her a playful smirk and she confesses. “It was the stables. The armory was earlier.”

“You need to relax,” he counsels.

“Perhaps you should heed your own advice.” She acknowledges the pile of parchment he is currently hovered over. 

He smiles at it and then back to her, kindly. “Spend some time with me?” 

She hesitates, scanning her mental checklist again, but he goes to her and holds her by the arms with a comforting grip. 

“Sansa, everything is in perfect order. I know, because you’ve assured it. Now please, let’s have a drink.” 

She follows him to a lavish blue and gold settee near the ornate hearth at one end of the expansive room. He hands her a goblet of wine and sits, offering her a place next to him on the cushion that could easily seat five. “Come into my castle, my Lady?” 

Sansa can’t help smiling at this. She blushes down into her cup as an image of a younger Jon scowling at their childhood games emerges in her memory. 

“I take it you’ve grown accustom to the fineries of the Vale,” she teases as she takes her place next to him on the gaudy lounge.

“Aye, you’ve found me out,” he jests, settling against the velvety fabric with a poor attempt at pomp.

“Dear brother, I'm afraid you are far too dark and serious for ornamental high towers.” 

“You’re probably right,” he concedes with exaggerated woe. “Still, I suppose it’s better than the dreary quarters of Castle Black.” 

She wrinkles her brow at him. “You can’t fool me, Jon Snow. You adore the dreary.”

“Are you suggesting I wouldn't make a good perfumed southron lord?”

She laughs, shaking her head at the notion.

“You wound me, my Lady.” 

“Believe me, it's no insult," she assures him, urging away the appalling image of it. "I could see you as a Knight of the Vale, though.” 

Her sincerity in this makes him shift slightly. 

“Ah, a Fool and a Knight.” He raises his cup to toast his new titles and she laughs at him again. Would that he could hear that sweet laughter for all nights to come. He’d chance slaying a dragon for that.

Sansa takes a sip of her wine and submits into her relaxation, at last. They sit quietly for a while, enjoying the warmth coming from the hearth. Jon can't remember a more peaceful moment and almost allows himself to forget that he will soon be plunged back into depths of battle and all that comes with it. Their journeys have been so different, and at the same time so similar. How they ever found their way back to each other, he'll never truly understand. But here they are, united and ready to face anything or anyone who would dare pull them apart from each other again. 

“I miss Winterfell,” he reflects quietly. 

“Don’t you wish we could go back to the day we left?” Sansa looks around the room with vague condemnation. “As a little girl, all I ever wanted was to be somewhere else. Back then I only thought about what I wanted, never what I had.”

Jon looks at her, but she offers a small smile to head off his inevitable concern for her. It seems to work and instead he lays a gentle hand on her knee. 

“Will you do something for me, Jon?”

“Of course.” _Anything in the world, don’t you know that by now?_

“The war efforts begin tomorrow, and we don’t know what might happen. I have faith that we will triumph and win our home back, but you know better than me that there are no guarantees in war." She feels his hand tense up on her knee and she places hers on top of it. 

"So, will you give me tonight?” Her voice is almost mischievous.

Jon watches with cautious curiosity as she turns more fully toward him to explain. Her manner holds all the seriousness of a child laying out the rules of her own game.

“What if, just for one night, we can say whatever we want, _be_ however we want, with no judgement or fear. No fretting about what came before or what will come next. We will just act as though none of it matters. Only for tonight.”

She worries for a moment that she sounds like a silly little girl, but realizes she’s already breaking her own rule and lets herself be resolute in the idea. “We can tell each other secrets, or play stupid games, or act like idiots. Anything we want. Let’s just pretend as if tomorrow will never come. Will you do that for me?” 

Jon considers her proposal for a moment and then smiles warmly. “Aye, I think I could manage that. Tonight, the world is only you and me in this painted room. As long as you promise to forget any crimes I confess once I’m well into my cups,” he mocks. “If I live through the war to face justice, that is.” 

“You’re already breaking the rules, Jon. There is no war, remember? Now you have to take a drink.”

“Ah, so this game of yours is a drinking game, is it? And when was that decided?”

“Just now. Breaking a rule means you have to drink.” 

Jon accepts his penalty honorably, then takes a turn. “Okay. Tell me a secret, then.” He’s enjoying this already. “How did my proper little sister come to know so much about drinking games in the first place?”

“I was married to Lord Tyrion, remember?” 

Jon isn’t sure he likes the sound of that but doesn't dare show it. If he's going to play this game then he aims to win it, and he’s already behind in the score.

“Alright, then. What are the rest of the rules?” He smiles at her obvious delight in the opportunity to organize something.

“Let’s see,” she begins, relishing her authority. “No courtesies, for one.” 

Jon is truly surprised this is first on her list. But when she reaches down to unlace her heeled boots and pulls her feet up onto the settee he better understands, smiling again. 

“And no chivalry, either.” He raises an eyebrow at her as if standing accused of something, but she presses the issue. “I mean it, Jon. You’re not my hero tonight. No pledges of fatal retribution, or pained looks of guilt, or even pity if you learn something about me you don’t like. And no brooding on my behalf, either.”

“Do you mean to get me drunk, woman?” He scoffs teasingly.

Sansa continues on, trusting her point has been sufficiently made. “And we have to be honest with each other. Always, no matter what.”

“And how would you know if I cheated, sweet sister?” 

“If you agree to it then I will trust you to keep your promise.” This touches him despite his own doubt on the matter. “Besides,” she admits. “You’re a terrible liar.” 

Jon wonders why he finds this slightly offensive, but then lets it go. 

“Alright, Sansa. I agree. No courtesies, no chivalry, and no brooding. Just honesty.” He lifts his cup to seal the pact.

“And no tomorrow,” she adds as she brings her cup to meet his.

“Aye, no tomorrow.”


	19. The Long Night

“Drink!” she insists. 

“I’m not lying, I swear it.”

“Come on, Jon.”

“By the Old Gods and the New.”

“But it’s not… _possible._ "

“I think I have a little more authority on the matter than you.” He smirks a little at her before adding, “Wildlings do it all the time. Well, not all of them. But plenty.”

She still looks at him in disbelief.

“I thought you said you trusted me.”

“I do.” In the distraction of her trying to picture it her pledge of faith is distant, almost a question. 

“Right.”

“No, I do,” she urges with more assurance, returning her attention to him. “It’s just… how?”

“Very carefully.” 

 

He enjoys the annoyance his teasing elicits from her but finally explains the process. 

“We used ice picks, and put these spiked sort-of braces on our boots. It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was excruciating and I almost didn’t make it. But it was also exhilarating. Tormund’s done it half a hundred times, ask him. He was there.”

“Wow,” she admires, seeming to finally believe him.

Jon tries not to let his pleasure in impressing her show on his face, but he might have failed.

“Well, aren’t you just _remarkable,_ ” she mocks innocently.

Jon starts to laugh at this and she joins him, both falling into a fit that takes a while to bring back under control. The release of it is something they’ve both needed, for so long.

 

“What about you?” he asks when they’ve caught their breath. “What’s the most exciting thing you’ve ever done.” 

The smile leftover on Sansa’s face from her hysterics widens sinisterly. She takes a sip of her wine, but not because she intends to lie. Because she deserves it.

“I almost killed Joffrey, once.”

“What?” he gasps, intrigued. 

She nods and then the last few giggles finish. She has to take a few deep breaths in recovery before she can explain, but she doesn’t mind. Jon will just have to be patient and see how he likes it. Finally, her face turns a little more serious. Sansa knows it pains Jon when she speaks of their father’s death, as it pains her, but he’ll appreciate this. 

“He was such a pathetic monster,” she begins. “Tormenting me wasn’t just a sick pleasure for him. He needed it to feel like a man, to feel powerful because he knew he wasn’t. I remember him crying like a scared little girl when Arya took his sword from him on our way down to King’s Landing.” 

“Too bad she didn’t cut his throat with it,” he contributes with a look of disgust.

“I truly believed she would, for a moment. But then she threw it in the ford. He never knew what to do with it anyway. He might have passed the sentence on Father, but it was Ilyn Payne that swung the sword. Father’s sword. Joffrey probably wouldn’t have been able to even lift it.”

 

Jon’s look of rage isn’t breaking any rules. It is on behalf of Father and she shares it. 

 

“The next day he took me up on the battlement and made me look at him. They’d put his head on a spike, along with Septa Mordane’s. He told me he would be giving me Robb’s next.” They both take a drink and then she continues. “I was so angry that I looked him in the eye and told him maybe Robb would give me his head instead.”

A smile of pride spreads across Jon’s face, but it is short-lived.

“He told me his mother said a king should never strike his lady, so he ordered Meryn Trant to do it instead.”

“Seven –” Jon begins, but her glance warns him quiet again.

“He turned away from me, just for a moment, to admire the death as if it were by his own hands. I don’t know what came over me but before I realized what I was doing my feet were moving toward him. I was going to push him off the wall and watch his stupid smirk splatter when his head hit the stone floor. I would’ve done it too, but Sandor Clegane stopped me. He pulled me back before Joffrey turned around and acted as if he were only trying to wipe the blood from my split lip. He was Joffrey’s guard but he was protecting me. My head would’ve been the next one up there.”

 

Jon seems lost in imagining the scene. She worries that he will be angry with her foolish impulse but then he releases an unexpected, “Huh” of realization.

“What?”

“I guess both my sisters are ruthless little killers,” he quotes Clegane. Then he smiles at her and pulls her into an approving sideways hug, kissing her temple.

“Sansa the Kingslayer,” she proclaims. “If only.”

 

They share with each other more stories from the past. It is nice to be able to speak as friends and equals. Jon has been surprisingly compliant in the game, though he did have to drink for brooding over her tale of escaping with Littlefinger after Joffrey’s wedding. Most of the villains in her stories have met their justice already but this one still scurries free. For now. Otherwise, they have appreciated the chance to get to know each other more intimately and even unburden themselves a bit. 

 

Sansa shifts herself on the settee, relaxing herself back against his open arms so she can stretch her legs out in front of her.

“Getting sleepy?” he asks trying to conceal his desire for this to not end.

“No,” she promises. “Just getting more comfortable. You’re stuck with me for the night, Jon.” 

“Good,” he admits before kissing the top of her head. He gently pulls her hair away from her shoulders and begins to massage his fingers into her neck.

“That feels nice.” Sansa leans into his touch a little more and lets out a soft sigh. 

Jon finds himself allowing a sinful glance down at the small dip between her breasts where the fabric of her dress is pulled away from her skin. 

 

“You’re turn.”

“Hmm?” He refocuses.

“Tell me a secret. Something you haven’t told anyone.”

Jon’s hates that his cock in Melisandre’s mouth is the first image that comes to mind, especially since it does nothing to detour the effects that ogling Sansa had started to have. He prays for some assistance and then it occurs to him.

“I found a lost ruby from Rhaegar Targaryen’s armor when we were in the Quiet Isle.” 

Sansa sits up suddenly and Jon folds his hands in his lap just in time for her to turn around and look at him with intrigued surprise. 

“Really? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“There were more important things going on. I must have forgotten.”

“You mean you were sulking. Drink, Jon Snow.” 

 

He picks up his wine and drinks, then holds the cup strategically as he stands and crosses the room. When he returns to her he is carrying a small leather sack containing various objects of importance to him. 

Sansa watches as he sifts through the items she can’t see. Among them are a shard of dragon glass, a bundle of white feathers from the arrows Ygritte shot into him, a piece of twine from the prayer wheel Catelyn made for him as a child, and a bloody scrap of boiled leather. If Sansa wants secrets, she need only look in here. But for now, he will offer one. 

When Jon pulls out the stone, red tints the firelight on his face. He looks at it for a moment and then hands it to his sister. 

 

“It’s heavy.” She admires its beauty, holding it flat in her palm. 

“Do you want it?”

Her look of surprise doesn’t quite make sense to him. “Jon, no. It’s yours.”

“What use do I have for jewels? Besides, the color doesn’t really go with my outfit.” 

Sansa doesn’t even acknowledge his failed joke, too fascinated by her examination of the ruby. 

“This was Rhaegar _Targaryen’s,_ ” she informs him.

“I know. I just told you that.” 

“But,” she tries again before he cuts her off with more sincerity.

Jon moves closer to her and places a hand around her hip as they look at it together. “Sansa, everything I value in this world belongs to you. I want you to have it. Will you take it? Please. I’d like to think of you holding it, just like this, when I’m riding into battle.”

“Jon,” she whispers, closing her hand around it and holding it against her heart. Then she remembers. “Drink.” 

 

He takes a sip, then another, but not for honor. He drinks for the courage to face what’s next. 

Jon stands and moves to the hearth, studying the flames. “Sansa, I need to tell you something.”

“I thought it was my turn,” she says looking down at the beautiful gift again. He turns to her and sees her loving eyes meet his as if she were about to confess something, but his severe look halts it. 

“What’s wrong?”

Jon opens his mouth twice before he can say it. “I want you to stay in the Eyrie until after the war.”

Her expression shifts rapidly from concern, to earnest confusion, and then anger. The game is over.

 

“Jon, no. You can’t– ” 

“Please, Sansa. Just listen to me.” His calm unsteadies her. 

Sansa's chin trembles and her eyes begin to lose their way as he kneels in front of her, holding her by the arms. “It isn’t safe. What if Ramsay sends someone to capture you from the camp during the battle? Or what if we fail? You’d already be here, safe in the towers with guards surrounding you.”

“But I’ll have guards in the camp,” she tries to reason, but the tears start to spill on their own as she already sees the fixed resolve in his face.

“Ramsay is a northerner. He will know the woods better than the Knights of the Vale or the Tully soldiers.”

“I’ll have _Brienne._ ” It's her last attempt. 

 

He doesn’t make any more arguments, just looks into her eyes willing her to forgive him. “I’m so sorry. I just _can’t_ lose you.” His voice is strained with a choke. “I would never do anything to hurt you. Please, Sansa. Please tell me you know that.”

She lowers her eyes painfully from him and whispers, “But this does hurt.” 

Jon presses his face into her lap, knowing he can’t relent on this. He would do anything for her. He would pull the moon from the sky and place it in her hands. He would conquer the seven kingdoms, the _world._ Anything she wants. Only not this. 

He feels her delicate, shaking fingers glide into his hair and he prays for absolution. 

“Jon," she sobs."What if I never see you again?”

This pulls him upward and their eyes lock together with a desperate shared yearning to make the game real. To make tomorrow never come. 

 

Then it happens, only this time there is no stillness.

 

Lips crash over lips like waves, pushing and pulling in a dangerous tide. 

Jon's tongue gropes for hers with a fierce, unleashed lust. The hands in his hair grip down on his curls with agonizing force, using the leverage to pull him onto her as Sansa stretches her body back on the lush velvet. 

His weight crushes her down into the cushion, making her feel whole. His arms push under her back as their bodies swim together in a perfect fusion of desire and need. Staggered gasps escape when they can, but breathing holds such small importance next to the splendor found beneath the sea. 

Drowning is the path they choose.

 

She lets out an excruciating moan and Jon finally reaches the surface. 

“Sansa,” he worships, panting down at her. He waits, only for her wildly intoxicated eyes to come back to him, then thrusts against her again. Mouth, hands, and hips, all pressing their claim. 

He feels her knees shift beneath him, making room for his body, and he falls into place between them. Jon can’t fight the burning any longer and he rocks against her skirts. Her hands pull in his hair again as she forces his kiss away, allowing her to release another, harder moan. 

Jon won’t survive the separation so he moves his mouth to her throat. He swallows drips of her sweat and scrapes his teeth along her flesh, summoning his name from her lips. 

 

The room and the world around them are gone. They are the only righteous beings left in existence now.

 

The fire is too much. 

It threatens to consume them both and Jon finally stills his face against her heaving chest, ready to die. Then, somehow, he conjures strength from a source unknown and breathes against her skin, “We have to stop.”

“Please,” she begs him softly.

“Sansa, we can’t. We _can’t._ ” He wants to weep but instead he lifts himself weakly and looks at her. She is so beautiful it frightens him. 

His sister takes his face in her hands and they mourn silently together. 

At last she confesses, "I know."

 

Jon falls to her side and she cries into his heart. He holds her like that until the cruel sun encroaches through the window, extinguishing their precious night.

 

When she wakes, he is gone.


	20. The Neck

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon's armies make camp near the Trident.

Jon and his forces have reached the Neck. Winter is coming and the nights grow colder with their approach north. 

 

Word has traveled throughout the kingdoms of the impending war and Jon remains on alert for any possible trouble along the way. Scouts are sent in all directions to watch for movement and gather any information that might be of use. 

When they near the Twins, he sends ten riders to a watch. The armies are camped at the end of where the Kings Road runs along the Trident before forking eastward, away from the old man. This will be the closest they get. Briefly, Jon permits a fantasy of disguising himself as a scout and murdering Walder Frey in his bed. If he traveled up the river he'd be able make good time of it and then catch up with the line near Greywater Watch. It would be enjoyable, to be certain, but far from worth it. _After,_ he promises Robb's ghost.

 

Jon waters his horse and takes a moment to wash the dirt from his face in the river. 

When he isn’t off reflecting alone, or taking himself in hand when opportunity is offered, he distracts himself with the company of his men. Davos, Tormund, Brynden, and even the Hound – Clegane – have proven to be an entertaining band of brothers on this travers. Mostly though, Jon sits quietly and pretends to listen to their competitive tales of adventure while the image of her fills his mind. 

He misses Sansa.

The beast within no longer requires devoted cultivation, as it is fully grown and battle ready. It rests quietly now in low embers, conserving its strength for when the time is upon them. _Waiting._ But without his murderous brooding to keep him company, as it had in the Quiet Isle, his treasured moments of isolation begin to be gripped by a different sort of obsession. 

 

Jon tucks himself away, having relieved both water and seed into the river. 

When he emerges from the woods he reaches to untie the reigns of his horse, ready to head back to camp and get some rest. Perhaps his dreams will be kind again tonight. But then he hears branches crack. 

Pulling out his sword, Jon calls out into the darkness, “Who's there?" A rider approaches, one of his own, and Jon relaxes his grip. 

“My Lord,” the man begins without dismounting. Jon has resigned himself to allowing the false title, weary with the repetition of denying it, but also because he now leads two great armies. He needs to maintain an air of authority in order to earn a swift victory, even if it's only an illusion. He needs to return to her. 

"Word from the Twins," the scout reports. The disturbed expression on the man's face tells Jon he won't be meeting his bed anytime soon, and he mounts his horse in dutiful resolve. Jon had hoped for little disturbance en route to Winterfell, but never really expected it would be that easy. No matter. They are prepared. 

“Are they on the move?” 

“No, my Lord. They’re dead.”

 

Back at camp, Jon gathers his advisors and friends. There have been no reports of movements from any other forces, so Jon tries to make sense of how the Freys could have been not only attacked, but wholly defeated. Aside from the men at his side, who would have cause to take up arms against them? 

“Wasn’t any of mine,” Brynden reports once he’s accounted for his house. “Wouldn’t mind giving a handsome reward to whoever did it, though.”

“Unless they are an enemy force,” Jon points out. 

Brynden concedes him this. “They weren’t difficult to expel from Riverrun. Maybe the Lannisters decided to take them out and replace them with a stronger defense in the Neck.”

“But who?” Davos runs through potential powers that would be fierce enough to try and stand in the way of this fight. It wouldn’t make sense for the Lannisters to do it themselves. Jon and his crew are heading north, not south. And winter is coming. Why risk it when this war would likely do half the work thinning the forces for them? 

“What about the Ironborn?” Clegane suggests. “You said Sansa told you the Greyjoy lad returned to Pyke. Maybe they decided to join us.” 

Jon considers this, but finds no cause for hope just yet. “I don’t see why they wouldn’t have sent word.”

“Unless they mean to fight against us,” the Onion Knight points out. It is Davos’ job to consider all likely outcomes, but Jon disagrees.

“I don’t think Theon would do that.”

“He’s betrayed your family before.”

“Yes," he remembers. But it just doesn't add up. "I don’t think he would turn on Sansa. But regardless, there can be no question that Theon would want to see Ramsay defeated. Besides, from what Sansa's told me, I can’t imagine he's in any form to lead an army into war. Certainly not a band of raiders against all of us.”

“Perhaps it's his sister then," Davos persists. "She's the true warrior of that house. It is rumored that she was being positioned to rule after her father. There’s never been a woman ruler and the Ironborn follow strength. Maybe this is a show of force to earn her security in the succession.”

Jon thinks about this, but then two more riders approach and dismount outside the tent. When he exits the canvas, he recognizes the men as part of the scouting party he'd sent to the Twins. But it takes him a moment to process what else he sees. 

 

A small frightened girl, maybe younger than Arya, is lowered from her place on one of the riders' saddles. Her hands are bound, but Jon can’t imagine why. What threat could this little girl be, and why would anyone take such a hostage? 

Before Jon can demand an explanation and exile all notions of dishonorable warfare from his men, the rider introduces her.

“This is Lady Frey. Lord Walder’s widow.” 

The information is so far outside Jon’s understanding he convinces himself he’d incorrectly heard the man. Surely this was Frey’s daughter. Or even granddaughter. This child couldn't possibly be anything near a wife, much less the bride of a man in his ninth decade. 

Jon’s naiveté wanes quicker these days, though and he realizes soon enough that he'd heard right. His stomach turns with pity and disgust, then demands her captor remove her restraints. “Unless you fear this warrior might better you, _Ser._ ” His displeasure in the tactics is made clear and he is obeyed at once.

 

She sits quietly at the table, dwarfed by the five large men now staring down at her. Davos is the first to make amends. 

“Apologies my Lady, we mean no harm and do not wish to frighten you.” He gives Jon a learned glance and then suggests, “Perhaps you and I could manage the task of questioning our guest sufficiently enough? No need to crowd the girl.”

Jon nods at the group signaling his order. The Blackfish, the Hound, and the Wildling exit the tent. Then Jon and Davos sit calmly across from the still wide-eyed girl. Davos offers her some bread, but she just looks at it as if she isn’t quite sure what to do with it. 

“My Lady,” Jon begins. He has no wish to cause the girl suffering with his haste, but he needs this information. So, they may as well get on with it. “Do you know who we are, why we are here?”

She looks at him then, slightly more frightened, and shakes her head as if worried this is the wrong answer.

“My name is Jon," he offers more kindly. "My father was Ned Stark and we are riding north to retake my family’s home.”

“Winterfell?” She finally speaks, but then seems to regret it and pulls her lips tight between her teeth. 

Jon and Davos look at each other, questioning. Davos decides to try next. 

“I know that this must be difficult for you. I have no doubt losing your… family,” - Davos can’t fashion the word husband against the poor waif - “must have been a terrible tragedy. I'm sure it has wisely made you fearful of facing more soldiers. But if it please, my Lady, I give you my word as a sworn knight that no harm will come to you here. We just want to talk.” He looks at her with endearing, kind eyes and she seems to relax a bit. The girl turns back to Jon and nods.

“Can you tell us what happened at the Twins?”

“It was... strange, my Lord. I fear you won’t believe me.”

“I understand, my Lady." Jon's sincerity is clear. "I have seen many strange things myself, as of late. Still, I’d like to hear your account. No matter of our opinion when you're through, Ser Davos’ promise will be held. No one will hurt you.”

She takes another breath and then a small bite of the bread. Perhaps to gather her thoughts, and perhaps to face the possibility of it being her last meal. Jon and Davos wait patiently until she has swallowed the grain.

 

“Lord Walder had a feast. He gathered the entire family together but nobody knew his reason. It seemed odd, as he usually only allows for feasts when required. Like when a member of the royal family comes, which is almost never. But other than that, just for weddings,” she says plainly. 

Jon darkens at the girl’s mention of the topic and then she seems to realize what she’s said. “I.. I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright,” he urges, trying to relax his gaze. In truth, he holds nothing against her. The poor girl wasn’t even there. Frey had a different child wife then, before Catelyn cut her throat. Jon often forgets that his face has the power to scowl without needing consultation with his sense first. “Truly, please go on.”

She looks back at Davos who gives her the encouraging fatherly grin only he can give. 

“I was sitting on the platform with my Lord when it happened. The hall was filled with every Frey man I’d ever known and many I didn’t. But when Lord Walder made his toast...”

The girl steadies herself as though the images in her mind were rushing for her. She keeps her gaze low when she speaks again. 

“He said that he was proud of his men for the R.. Red Wedding. He said they were brave men for butchering a pregnant woman and cutting the throat of a mother of five.”

Jon grows queasy again but orders his face to remain at ease. This _did_ have something to do with his family. He knows that now. And he must find out what. 

“That was when I started to realize something... wasn't right.” 

With this she looks at Jon again and he is almost thrown by the change in her manner. She is more determined now, holding a resolution that seemed entirely impossible of the girl who'd dismounted from the rider's horse. Jon finds himself feeling a sadness for her. She is somebody’s daughter, somebody’s sister. He decides to offer her an escort of riders to take her back to wherever they are and hope that she is welcomed with kindness. Only, after she’s told them everything.

 

“He mentioned guest right," she continues. The tone in her voice now reveals that, despite her timid appearance, she was the lady of a noble house. "The way he said it. It was just nothing that would have come from Lord Walder. I know it.”

“What did he say exactly, if you can remember,” Davos asks gently. But she maintains her firm hold on Jon's eyes.

“That they’d slaughtered their _guests_ after welcoming them into their home. But then he said they'd made a mistake. That they hadn't killed all of the Starks.” 

Jon agrees this sounds odd, but his first thought is to assume the words were meant as a call to finish the job. Not that it matters now. They were all dead, and that was what he was waiting to get to. But her next words pull him up short. 

“He said, ‘Leave one wolf alive and the sheep are never safe.’”

 

All of Jon’s attempts at reasoning his way through the strange tale abandon him. He is rapt. _What in seven hells could have happened?_ None of it is making sense yet, but he will concentrate on every word she offers until it does. 

“The men drank to the toast, but Lord Walder told me I wasn’t permitted. He said he wouldn't waste good wine on a woman." Jon notices this detail seems to unnerve her the most. She swallows with a look of horror, or perhaps something else. “They all started to fall. One by one, all of them. They were choking and grabbing at their necks, but it was all over in seconds." The lady's eyes are unfocused in the memory of it. 

"They were all dead.”

 

Davos notes Jon's bewilderment and regrets no longer sharing in it. Instead, he understands everything now. The girl was sent to deliver them a fabrication, and a poor one at that. Whoever set such a dangerous mission to this frightened child must be some kind of monster.

“You mean to tell me Walder Frey poisoned his own sons? All of them.” 

He sighs, not wanting the job of informing her she’s failed in her task. He’ll be kind about it though. But before he can speak he sees her shaking her head in disagreement, truly beginning to tremble. 

“He… she…” The girl steadies herself with a breath and then look directly at Jon. “It wasn’t him. It was someone else, a girl, wearing his f..face.” Jon lifts his eyebrows in utter disbelief, but the girl is sure. “I saw it. He reached up and pulled back the skin from his _neck._ He pulled his whole face right off! And underneath... was a girl." She shutters. "She looked at me, right in the eyes, and said…”

“What?” Jon’s urgency flinches her but she holds strong as if delivering the words were her only true purpose on earth.

“She said, when people ask me about what happened, I'm to tell them the North remembers. And that Winter came for House Frey.”

 

Jon vaguely hears Davos continue to question the girl. Were there soldiers? Did anybody else come? But he is now fully engrossed in his own thoughts. 

The face thing was absurd, the shock of it all must have warped the poor girl's memory somewhat, but she clearly saw something. Who would have done this? He remembers a scroll that Stannis had received at Castle Black. _Bear Island knows no king but the King in the North, whose name is Stark._ She'd said it was a girl. Lady Mormont was only ten at the time. But how...? He shakes the ridiculous notion away and tries to find reason. Jon knows there is no time for distractions or vulnerability. They already have a large mission ahead of them and, he considers, whoever did this seems to be on the right side of things. But what if it's all a farce? A ploy to draw them into a false sense of security. Well, that is easy enough to deflect. Freys or not, this doesn't change the fact that they have enemies in all four corners of the country. But what if they were to gain another ally? 

Jon decides there isn't cause enough to think on it further. 

 

He brings his attention back as Davos offers the girl guarded rest for the night, the interrogation completed. But just before she steps out of the tent, Jon stops her. 

"What did the girl look like?" 

Lady Frey wrinkles her forehead at him for a moment with a strange examination before she responds.

"She looked like you."


	21. Run

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa broods without Jon. Jon continues his journey home.

Sansa wakes from another restless dream with sweat beading on her skin. It began on the ship. Secretly, ever since the agonizing pain of near constant retching had subsided so that she could finally know sleep again, she’d been having vivid dreams and intense visions. She didn’t understand what had started them, but she was too afraid, maybe even too ashamed to seek understanding by mentioning them to anyone. Especially Jon. 

__

They started as only dreams, but then sometimes would creep into her waking hours as fantasies. Hands touching her, lips, naked flesh. They were vague longings of an experience she’d never thought she would want. Not after Ramsay. But these weren’t that. The blurry, half-formed images caused a stirring in her core and a wetness between her thighs that both frightened and intrigued her. It was her own private pleasure. A secret world. 

__

However, after their last night in the Quiet Isle, the images in both her dreams and her thoughts took on the sharp detail of clarity. When hands touched her, they were his. Rough and thick. Every detail of them she knew, down to the thread sized scars and the wide, unkempt nail beds. The eyes that held hers while she was thrusted into were dark, almost black, just like his beautiful mane. But still, these were all images conjured from the limits of her imagination. 

__

But now, she is plagued by memory. No matter how often she’d imagine his tongue in her mouth, nothing came close to the sensation she’d felt as it pushed into her that night. Even the romantic perfection of it all, the halo of golden light surrounding them, the smell of sweet roses in the air, the poetry he spoke to her. Gods it was all so dull compared to the real thing. To the smell of his sweat, the danger of his force. It replays over and over, night after night, day after day. Driving her insane. 

__

 

__

When she isn’t being tortured by her unstated arousal, she is being irritated by Robin Arryn. She doesn’t mind dealing with his sickness, wiping the vile runny discharge from his eyes so he won’t get any on her dress when he flings his weak arms around her waist. The process gives her a much-needed cooling from the painful heat that afflicts most of her moments. But his constant questioning of when they will go to Winterfell causes her to fear she might strike the child.

__

Her agitation is relentless. 

__

Brienne tried to help with words of reassurance, at first, but has come to understand that the only thing to offer is patient endurance. And apologies on behalf of her lady when Sansa snips at a member of the household guard. 

__

 

__

“Have there been any ravens?” Sansa accuses her the moment she enters the room.

__

“Not since yesterday,” Brienne replies calmly as she watches the fretting woman pace. She is often pacing.

__

“Ugh,” Sansa pushes out. “They should have advanced farther by now, what are they doing? They can’t afford to lose any time. Winter is coming!” 

__

“I know. But things seem to be on course for the most part.” 

__

This doesn’t soothe her, nothing does. She turns from her ruminations to fire at Brienne another demand that can’t be met. But the sight of the noble woman standing patiently to receive her injustices finally brinks her better sense.

__

Sansa sighs, yielding her false battle as she sinks into the chair near her hearth. “I’m sorry.”

__

“It’s quite alright.”

__

“No. It isn’t.” Sansa looks at her and tries to offer some of the kindness that nobody in the world deserves more than Brienne. “What would I do without you?” 

__

Brienne doesn’t answer, just looks down with the discomfort she always seems to suffer when offered a compliment. But again, Sansa forces her will.

__

“Really. You are one of the bravest, most honorable and skilled knights in all of the Seven Kingdoms. Yet you are stuck here, day after day, playing nurse-maid to a hateful little child throwing a tantrum.”

__

“I’m not a knight,” is the only disagreement she gives the claim. Then she smirks a little and at this Sansa laughs. It helps.

__

 

__

“I can’t imagine what you must be going through,” Brienne offers more sincerely. “This is your fight, yet you’ve been made to stay back and wait for news.” Sansa brightens a little with the understanding but Brienne hastens to add, “Not that I think it was the wrong call. Your safety is the most important part in all of this. Jon was right.” 

__

Sansa’s scowl begins to return with the mention of Jon. She is furious with him, and she won’t be talked out of it.

__

“Still, you have a right to your frustration. And if it helps to unleash that on me, then I am here to serve you. Better me than the kitchen wenches,” she adds with a subtle scolding. Sansa smiles again in guilty remorse. 

__

“I’ll apologize.”

__

“It would be courteous. But I am serious about me. If you need an outlet, use me. I can take it my Lady, I assure you.”

__

“Sansa,” she corrects with deflection. She considers the woman with appreciation for a moment. “Maybe we should spar.”

__

Brienne smirks at the presumed joke. “Perhaps it needn’t come to that, Sansa.”

__

“No, I mean it.” Sansa lifts her posture with more intention. “Teach me to fight.”

__

“I…” Brienne is so thrown by the shift in context that she has to pause for calculation.

__

“Come on,” Sansa pushes. “We aren’t doing anything worth a damn just sitting around this tower anyway. I might not be riding into battle with the Knights of the Vale, but wouldn’t it be wise if I could at least protect myself?”

__

“I’ll protect you,” she insists. It isn’t a denial of the request, only an automatic proclamation of fact. “But I suppose it wouldn’t hurt to learn a few things. Have you ever held a sword before?”

__

Sansa’s face widens into a mischievous grin like a child who’s just been granted a new pony. “Not yet.” She stands and moves quickly to the door before turning back to her warrior. “Come on!”

__

“What, now?” But Sansa is already out the door and Brienne hopes she hasn’t just been taken for a fool as she follows. 

__

 

__

***

__

 

__

Jon is helping the men break camp when he sees Lady Frey emerge from her tent. Approaching her, the words she spoke to him the night before still haunt his mind as they had all night.

__

_The North Remembers_

__

_Leave one wolf alive…_

__

_She looked like you._

__

 

__

“My Lady,” he addresses politely. She gives a small nod in return and then looks around to the thousands of men surrounding her, busy with their morning stirrings. “I have ordered a small company of some of my most trusted men to escort you out of camp this morning.” 

__

“Thank you,” she replies mildly. Jon isn’t sure she trusts that she will be unharmed and he wishes he could offer to escort her himself.

__

“I promise you safe passage on my honor as Ned Stark’s son. We can return you to your childhood home if you’d like. Where are you from?” But her expression turns from timid to defiant with a speed that he thought only Sansa capable of.

__

“My Lord I will be returning to the Twins.” 

__

His heart sinks for her. Doesn’t she realize she is no longer a prisoner to those evil creatures? But then she shocks him out of his foolish paternalism.

__

“My children need me.” 

__

Realization floods him and he wonders if he will ever truly grasp the harsh realities of the world, as the girl standing before him has, as Sansa has. He is so much more a child then they were ever permitted to be. So, he simply nods to her authority. 

__

“Safe travels, my Lady.”

__

 

__

When the horses have been readied and the fires put out, Jon follows his armies north. As the road opens he slows his pace, intentionally falling back so that he can have some time alone. None of the men seem to notice or care, as solitude is Jon’s sigil, and when they have disappeared over the hill in front of him he detours his horse into the woods.

__

The trees around him whisper in the subtle breeze and he imagines it is Ygritte talking to him. Jon breathes in deeply, glad of the fresh scent of foliage rather than dirt and horse shit. Finally, he allows himself to indulge in the childlike whim that would have embarrassed him in front of any other living person.

__

“I miss you,” he speaks aloud to the trees. It isn’t as awkward as he’d feared. In fact, it actually felt so right that he continued shamelessly. 

__

“I’m sorry. I never got a chance to tell you that. I was a coward, and I left you. But you weren’t. You were so brave.” He takes a jagged breath, threatening to be overwhelmed. “I should’ve brought you with me to Castle Black. We could’ve made them accept you there.” He thinks of Sam, the self-professed coward who had more resolve than anyone he’s ever met. When it counted.

__

“They betrayed me, you know. My own brothers, the ones I left you for. They killed me. They killed you. If only I’d have been able to bring you back.”

__

Jon lowers his head, bringing his horse to a stop. The wind picks up in a gust and dried leaves whip his face. He laughs a little and can hear her in his heart. _You know nothing, Jon Snow._

__

“Aye, you were always right. Weren’t you? I… I’m afraid of who I am now Ygritte. Can you see me? Are you ashamed.” He hopes then, that his prayer to her really does fall on nothing. That there really is no such thing as… 

__

 

__

“Ghost?” 

__

A flash of massive strutting lightness catches the corner of his eye before it is gone. But there is no denying that there was something out there. Something big, and wild. 

__

Ghost had abandoned him before they boarded the ship in Eastwatch. He was furious at first when the only constant companion he’d maintained throughout all his journeys since Winterfell had turned on him as well. The heart break of watching him run north, back toward the land of his mother, almost caused him to abandon his promise to go south with Sansa. 

__

Later, when he’d stalk back and forth along the deck of the ship, stir-crazed and filled with angst, he was glad he hadn’t been successful in his selfish plea for the creature to join them. He belongs in the North. Ghost had always gone where he wanted, where he needed to be. Again, Jon was put in his place for trying to hold authority over his betters.

__

Still, he’d by lying if he said a part of him didn’t hold hope that Ghost would return to him once they were back home. 

__

 

__

An unmistakable rustle of leaves that is far too urgent to have been caused by wind pulls him deeper into the woods. Then he can hear it. The padding gallop that could only be created by a direwolf. Jon kicks his heals, urging the horse faster toward the sound without caution. 

__

Growls and snarls surround his ears on all sides. He keeps looking, but he can’t see anything. He stops the horse, trying to find the direction of the sound but it keeps shifting so that he can’t figure out which way to go. 

__

Finally, he sees them, emerging from the trees. All around him. Wolves, black and gray and brown. Not Ghost. Not direwolves, but big enough. His horse starts to buck in fear as they approach, from everywhere, and his heart starts to pound. _Shit._

__

Jon tries to remain calm, darting his eyes in all directions trying to find the best path to sprint toward in escape. But there are too many of them. They practically stand shoulder to shoulder in their formation, growing closer, trapping him. 

__

He closes his eyes in prayer and then a deep monstrous rumble comes from the sky behind him.

__

Jon whips around on his horse and the sight causes it to rear, throwing him to the earth on his back. He stays there, unmoving as the great creature rises above him slowly, darkening his whole body and several feet of dirt around him in its shadow. 

__

 

__

“Nymeria?” he barely breathes in shock. 

__

She lowers her head like a slow-moving catapult, aimed right at him. When she is only inches from his face, dropping puddles of drool onto his neck with every hot heaving breath that assaults his face, she looks at him and he disappears into the huge black pools of her eyes. 

__

It is only a flash, less that a second of sight, but he sees her. 

__

Jon is instantly on his feet, fear no longer a knowable force to him. He flicks a nods at the direwolf and she makes her move. Bounding through the forest, like the wind in a storm. And he follows, running faster than he knew was possible. Faster than he’d run from a tsunami of dead soldiers at his back. He couldn’t even promise his feet were actually making contact with the ground now. 

__

 

__

Then he could smell it and he bounded over the hill. A small fire, burning low. Just big enough for…

__

 

__

“Hello Jon.”

__


	22. The Dance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya

He can’t move.

He can’t breathe.

He won’t. Jon refuses to wake from this dream.

Or maybe it isn’t a dream. Maybe he’d just been eaten alive by a pack of wolves. Regardless, he won’t even blink.

 

“You alright?” she asks, pulling her face into the smile he’d thought was gone from him forever. 

He might’ve fallen but then she was in his arms, wrapped around his neck, and at last he inhaled.

“You’re real...”

She sighs a soft laugh into his ear. “I’ve missed you, big brother.”

He pulls her tighter, not ready to let go, and she isn’t ready either.

 

When she finally groans in fear of a cracked rib, he lowers her back to the ground but he doesn’t let her go. Instead he pulls her face in his hands, looking her over, still not quite believing.

“Arya,” he says at last. Then again. “ _Arya._ ”

She lifts her hands to his and presses them with reassurance, fighting the tears that she can’t seem to remember ever feeling rise before. 

“Where have you _been_?” The urgency in his question breaks her heart, as if he’d been standing in the forest for years just waiting for her to find him.

“I’m here now, that’s all that matters.”

 

He drops his hands to her shoulders now, not wanting to separate completely in case she disappears into thin air. But he needs a better look. She doesn’t seem hurt, not like when Sansa had returned to him. Maybe a little dirty, but that isn’t unfamiliar. What is, though, takes a while to gather. 

She is grown. 

And she has a stillness to her that had never been there before. Never. He can feel the solid form of her strength in her shoulders under his grasp now, and in her back when he’d lifted her. 

_Steel._

He looks down to her hip as the gleam of it catches his eye with the thought. Finally, he steps back, freeing her from his grip. The sight of her in full form nearly renders him breathless again. But the gulp of air finds him when she pulls the blade in a flash, twirling it for a moment before thrusting it at him hilt first.

“Needle,” he greets it with a smile.

“You remembered,” she beams and then his concentrated examination of the sword returns to her.

“Of course, I do.”

Then she is in his embrace once again, only this time with her feet still on the ground and her arms wrapped around his waist. He pushes a kiss into the top of her head as he soothes the now crying girl. The beat of his heart against her ear is the first thing that has felt right since the day she left Winterfell.

 

***

 

“You’re staring again,” she informs him, before handing him a charred piece of rabbit.

“Sorry,” he offers. 

He lowers his eyes to the food, then takes a bite, then looks back at her. 

“I just never thought I’d see you again. Now that I do, I… I mean.” He knows he sounds like an idiot. “I just missed you, that's all.”

She places a rough hand on his knee and squeezes gently, then offers another half-grin. _It's harder without a face._

 

“What happened to you?” he tries again, no longer able to tolerate his imagination alone. He needs to know.

She sighs, looking down at the mug of ale in her hand. Everything about her is so strange to him now, but he can’t get enough of the discoveries. “It’s a long story.”

“I’ve got time,” he teases but then her expression falls more serious. The hardness in her now isn’t just in her muscles. He can see that. He sighs and wraps an arm around her as she leans against his shoulder, relaxing slightly. “Will you talk to me? Please.”

 

She sits up again, wiping another stray tear from her cheek as if shooing a fly. “I just.. It’s been _so_ long.” 

“I know.”

“So much changed, Jon. I never thought I would be back here. With you, or anyone. Now that I am…” she flinches at her thoughts. “I’m different than who I used to be.”

“We all are.”

“I know. But this,” she pulls his hand in hers crossing their fingers in a tight grip. “I just want to feel it, for a little while. To be her again, to be Arya Stark.”

He looks down at their hands for a moment but she lets go. 

“I know what it’s like,” he says. “To forget yourself. To get lost.”

Arya looks away.

“But the way I see it. If we both went off to all ends of the earth, to the depths of the Seven Hells and back, then ended up together again eating rabbit in the woods,” he shoves her knee with his and she looks at him again. “Then maybe we were never truly lost.”

This time it is Jon who wipes away her tears and she lets them fall for him, her face breaking apart. He holds her, close and safe, until she has let it all go. Finally, she turns her face and wipes her nose on his shirt, making him laugh. It has been so long since she’s heard that laugh, loud and echoing through the trees. 

 

“I wouldn't even know where to start.” Arya takes a gulp of ale and sighs, shaking her head a little. 

He lifts his own mug and mutters, “How ‘bout with the Hound.” Jon can’t help his smirk when he looks at her again, swallowing the ale with a point.

“How do you…”

“Oh, no. You first.”

Arya raises an eyebrow at him but decides to let it go. For now. Then she begins her long tale by pulling out what started it all. Needle. 

 

Jon watches as she holds it in her hands and it seems as if she is drawing a warm, soft comfort from the cold, sharp steel. He knows that feeling.

“Father found this when we were in King’s Landing. Told me a little girl shouldn’t be playing with swords.”

Jon smiles. 

“When I told him I wanted to practice he asked me if I even knew the first thing about swinging a sword.” She looks at him then. “Stick 'em with the pointy end, I said.” Arya allows his smile to fill her heart, as she’d hoped the words would for him. 

 

She stands then and he watches as she moves in a strange glide around the fire, rolling the sword from hand to hand.

“Father always knew what I was. He saw me, truly. Just like you did. Most lords would have forbidden their daughter from picking up a sword. Maybe even give their knuckles a _crack._ ” She whips the top long on the fire with a snap, sending sparks flying in a flare that makes Jon jump. 

_Watch._

“But instead he gave me a teacher. Syrio Forel, the First Sword of Braavos, and the greatest swordsman who ever lived.” She curves the blade up now, following it with a delicate arm in a beautiful, controlled motion that Jon had never seen before. “My dancing master.”

She spins now, in an elegant turn that his clumsy little sister would have never been capable of without falling and scraping her knees. Jon is hypnotized by her movements, the way she rolls her sword around her, through her fingers and behind her back, with delicate grace. She rises high on her toes and then sweep low in a lunge so quick he almost misses it. _Incredible._

“The water dance,” she chants, bringing the long line of her brother's gift into a perfectly straight stillness before her face. He watches and she closes her eyes as if she has fallen into a holy reverie. 

 Before she opens her eyes again, she recites the prayer's end. "They killed him."

“Who?” Jon’s voice is quiet, not wanting to disturb her sanctity. But she lowers her sword and looks at it.

“The Lannisters. Meryn Trant.” Arya sits again, across the fire from him on the ground. 

He misses her closeness, but understands her need for distance. For solitude. 

 

“I was training. I didn’t know they had already taken Father. But then they came to take me, too.” Arya picks up a thin branch, and mindlessly starts to break pieces from it. “He stopped them. Fought all ten of them off with nothing but a wooden sparring sword so I could escape through a secret passage under the Keep. But Trant got him in the end.” 

“That’s how you got away.”

Arya just nods, throwing a piece of bark into the fire before continuing. “I wandered the streets of King’s Landing for a while as a beggar. I was always dirty anyway, nobody would have known I was the daughter of a great lord. But then some kids told me that they were taking the Hand of the King to the sept.” 

Jon’s eyes are steady, fixed on his sister’s face. “You saw it?”

She looks down and shakes her head no. “Yoren caught me.”

“From the Night’s Watch.”

“He grabbed me as I was running toward the platform. I screamed for him to let me go, I wanted to kill them all. To save him.” She closes her eyes for moment and Jon sees that she actually blames herself for not being able to do it. “He held my face, tight so I couldn’t turn my head and he told me not to look at it. But I heard. The roar of the crowd, Sansa screaming, the rush of the sword through flesh and bone. I still hear it.” 

 

She stands, now, wiping the dirt from her trousers. Jon worries she will leave for a moment, but then she returns to sitting next to him. The delicate dancer now steel again. Perhaps she couldn’t bear to be close to him as she spoke of it. Not wanting his pain to reach out and touch her own. 

“Yoren cut all of my hair off and disguised me as a recruit for the Watch and we headed north.”

 

He already knows she didn’t make it. Yoren didn’t either. Jon doesn't look at her, still watching the fire as it starts to burn low.

 

“Jon?”

“Hmm.” 

“How did you know I was with the Hound?”

 

“He told me.”


	23. Plans

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa gets a gift, Arya hunts a Hound.

Things aren’t going according to Arya’s plan. 

 

She’d heard about the war before the ship from Braavos ever landed in her home country. She’d heard a lot. Arya had learned how to listen, in ways most others can't. She can hear whispers of secrets in a glance, see the details of someone's thoughts before they even registered having them. But there wasn’t cause for those skills to hear this. Everyone seemed to be discussing the Lady and the Bastard of Winterfell on their march to take back the North. 

When she arrived in White Harbor she had time to kill before the armies would reach that far north. She thought of going to Winterfell first, but even she couldn’t take out all of the Boltons, Manderlys, Umbers, and Karstarks. They were too strong. Northmen. 

She _could_ probably take out just one, though. The _Lord_ of Winterfell. Fucking cunt. But no, Jon had his own plan so she would not risk the honor of House Stark’s return to power by having everyone think he’d sent an assassin in the night. 

But the Freys… 

 

Arya had seen Jon’s armies coming long before the scouts arrived at the Twins. An old friend had joined her shortly after she’d returned to Westeros, and now she could see through the fierce creature’s eyes whenever she wanted. 

She’d had so many dreams of Nymeria while she was in Essos. Even before that. But when the direwolf had approached her, surrounded by her pack, she recognized every one of them and realized those weren’t just dreams. 

Nymeria had given her the first piece of it back. Home. Winterfell. Family. The temptation to reveal herself to Jon had been so high but having her companion back at her side has satisfied enough of that dream so that she could be patient and remain on track. Stick to the plan.

She would follow the armies, unseen, for as long as she could, determining her own path along the way. Using her own talents when she felt it might be of service to the cause. Arya worked best in the shadows. But when he’d gotten so close, alone, she couldn’t resist any longer. 

She’d heard that Sansa had remained at the Eyrie and assumed Jon would send her there as well. That was fine. She could see him, let him know she was still alive, and then get back to following them from a safe distance once she’d slipped past whoever was unfortunate enough to be assigned the task of escorting her to safety. She wouldn't kill them, but it would be a dark task to have to inform Jon of her disappearance again. 

 

However, now she finds herself riding at full speed, unmasked, toward her brother’s armies, with him trying to keep up. After everything she’d heard on her travels, all she’d seen, it still shocked the breath out of her to learn the Hound is alive. And here. Only a few more miles away. 

This isn’t the plan. She seems to be coming back to herself faster than she’d expected, and Arya Stark never was very good at sticking to a plan. 

 

***

 

Sansa tries again, swinging at the straw man standing perfectly still and unarmed in front of her, but even still she can barely make an impact. 

“Much better, my Lady.”

“No need to lie, Brienne. I'm terrible.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. Pod here was hardly any better when I first started training him and now… well he is perfectly sufficient, when it counts.” 

“Thank you, m’Lady.” 

Sansa smiles at the embarrassed squire. She will always be in his debt for his help in her rescue from the Boltons. And he was always polite, whenever he’d spoken enough to remind her he was around anyway. 

Initially, Brienne hoped that Sansa could practice with Podrick Payne in her sword lessons. But the level at which the training began proved dangerous for anyone with a pulse to be near the girl’s swings, even with a blunted sword. Besides, Pod had nearly pissed himself with the prospect of having to feign any sort of attack on Lady Sansa. 

 

Finally, sweating and panting, Sansa gives up her attempts on the dummy’s life and lays her weapon down. Brienne approaches her kindly with a smile. 

“It’s _hopeless._ ”

“Yes," Brienne offers flatly. "It is.” 

Sansa is surprised, not because she holds any hope of being able to master this bloody sport, but because Brienne had always remained so firmly aligned with her, regardless of the futility of it. 

The vast woman places a comforting hand on Sansa’s shoulder as she watches the girl attempt to catch her breath. Then, after regaining her attention, hands her a small gift. A dagger.

“Your lady Mother had one similar to this,” she begins before Sansa can question her. “She kept it in the sleeve of her dress at all times. When you asked me to train you to fight I got the idea and asked the smith to fashion it for you.”

Sansa looks at her, completely bewildered. She takes the beautiful thin steel out of its leather pocket, designed with straps to hold it in place on her arm. If she weren't still trying to control her breath, she might have cried.

“My.. my mother?” she asks finally. 

Sansa examines the hilt and edge, imagining her mother holding a blade like it. There was so much she never had a chance to know about her. Had she ever had to use it? 

 

Brienne takes the leather and ties it to Sansa’s wrist, showing her how it fits. But Sansa's eyes are still fixed on the steel. 

She can’t help but think of all of the times she’d needed protection and been left alone and unarmed. Would she have been able to use this to kill the men in that alley? Could she have been quick enough? Would she have worn this under the sleeve of her wedding dress? Finally, she looks back to the woman who had given her more than a weapon. She’d given her every day since they’d met without ever having to fear for her safety again. 

“It fits right under your clothes, like this.” Brienne slides the blade into place and pulls Sansa’s sleeve back over it. 

The tears do come now, but Brienne doesn’t have a chance to see them before Sansa's arms pull her neck into a bend. It is the first real hug the two women have shared. 

“Thank you,” Sansa whispers. 

Brienne returns the embrace as Pod tries not to look too pleased about the affection. Lady Brienne wouldn’t like that, and she’d work to remind him of her fierce authority in their next practice session.

 

When Sansa composes herself again, admiring the way her new weapon fits invisibly under her clothes, something occurs to her. 

“If you knew I’d never be able to do it, why did you keep training me all this time.”

“It’s good exercise, my Lady.” Brienne blushes a little and Sansa notices but says nothing. “And you seemed in need of some, well, release of tension.” 

Sansa knows that Brienne is referring to her frustration over being left behind at the Vale, but she blushes herself now wondering what the warrior would think if she knew just how frustrated she’d really been. Or from what. 

Something causes her to glance at Pod then, but before any other awkwardness could be exchanged Brienne sees a guard approaching them with haste. She moves quickly, reaching him out of ear shot of Sansa, but the guard’s expression clearly indicates trouble.

 

Sansa’s stomach twists so instantly that she almost doubles over. _Please. Please don’t tell me he’d dead. Please. Please. Please._

 

The seconds she must wait are agonizing, but then Brienne is with her again.

“Nothing to be concerned with, my Lady. The guards were approached by some travelers at the Bloody Gate. They’ve secured them for questioning.”

“What do you think they want?”

“Well, they’ve requested to speak with me, my Lady.”

Sansa isn’t sure about this. What if it is some kind of trap, or what if they’ve brought dire news. But Brienne places a comforting hand on her shoulder. 

“Please don’t worry. We are well defended. I will speak with the men and report back to you at once.”

“I should go with you.”

“If it please, my Lady. I’d prefer not to bring them inside the castle in case they are scouting. I’ll speak with them at the gate and return with whatever information I can gather.” 

Sansa still looks concerned but concedes with a nod. If this event brings some news of their position, good or bad, they need to know what it is as soon as possible. 

“Keep practicing," Brienne suggests. "Pod, assist Lady Sansa in running drills, would you?”

 

Pod looks as though this is the most harrowing order he’s ever received, but Brienne is already marching away with the guard. He sighs and turns back to Sansa who stares after his commander with anxious concern.

“Don’t worry, m’Lady. It’ll be alright.” 

She sighs, turning back to the boy. They had never been alone together before. Not that they were alone, now. Sansa always had a border of guards in place. But they’d never really spoken. Brienne always seemed to speak for the both of them, if needed and Podrick tended his lady quietly. 

 

The squire picks up the practice sword and offers it back to her meekly, but she isn’t interested in that. Maybe because her arm is still aching with her short lesson of the morning, or maybe just because she wants a distraction, Sansa decides to take advantage of this rare opportunity to speak to him without the eyes and ears of Brienne. 

Sansa smiles kindly and takes the sword offered to her, but then simply replaces it in the rack. Then she moves to sit on a bale of straw and motions for him to join her.

“I… I shouldn’t m’Lady.”

“Please? I need a break, just for a little while.” He nods, uncomfortably and then sits with her on the hay. “In truth, I wanted to thank you. 

 

***

 

Petyr isn’t a prisoner. Not exactly. He has his own sufficient tent, horse, and plenty of provisions. He certainly isn’t in chains. Though, there are four large, quiet, and skilled men that happen to stay within close proximity of him at all times.

And he is free to go wherever he likes throughout the camp, apart from the war council tent. Not that Baelish would choose to go there, anyway. In an army barracks spread out to accommodate thousands, Littlefinger usually chooses to stay as far from wherever Jon is as possible. But right now, Jon isn’t here.

He’d parted from the line at some stage, probably off on a secret mission of sorts. That, or fucking his fist again. Either way, Petyr Baelish has decided to stretch his legs and look around a bit. As he walks throughout the camp, he overhears the soldiers speaking mostly of women, war, and one man even makes a comment about Jon’s frequent trips to the woods. This doesn’t interest Petyr either, aside from the vaguest of prospects that there might be at least one soldier here not bloatedly in love with the bastard. But alas, the man is scorned for his disrespect, only to defend himself by saying that he considered recognition of stamina the very definition of esteem. 

Baelish’s disgustedly bored eye-roll is nearly audible, but mercifully wasn’t as the next word that catches his attention is quite undistorted. 

“Frey.”

 

He moves closer to a tent, while pretending to show interest in a drinking game that the Blackfish is attempting to explain to some Knights of the Vale. It is Ser Davos speaking. 

“I don’t know what to think. There have been no other movements. They are all dead, at least I think they are. The girl insists Old Walder was there, but nobody’s seen his body.”

“What about the face thing?” the crude wilding asks.

“Shock, I guess. Unless you know of some strange magic beyond the wall that I’m not aware of where you can slip on a face and kill fifty men at once.”

“That sounds like the Faceless Men,” Petyr offers as he slithers into view. 

 

Davos and Tormund both meet his intrusion with equally threatening looks of disdain. But Littlefinger’s smirk remains unwavering. 

“Forgive me, my Lords. I didn’t mean to disturb you.” 

He turns to leave but then Tormund grunts at him in a way he can only assume is meant to call his attention back, so he waits.

“The fuck is a Faceless Man?” 

Petyr glides closer to explain what he knows. Only by reputation, of course.

 

***

 

Sansa finds Pod to be a more capable distraction than she’d expected. It didn't take long for him to loosen his lips about his journey from being in service to Lord Tyrion to then Lady Brienne. She found it strange to be sort-of enjoying a discussion that included King's Landing. 

Her time with Tyrion had been the highlight, if you can call it that, in an otherwise near constant hell. At least, when she was married to him, she didn’t have to constantly fear her noble reproductive position being ransomed to the highest price, and he was kind to her.

From the tales he shares with her, Sansa can gather that Podrick is also kind. He is loyal and brave as well. He’s also just a little dull and, she can’t help it, but her mind slips to Jon. 

He’s been good about keeping her updated, and she really does believe in him, but she still finds herself worried. Expecting news to come around every corner that he’s dead. Again. 

She’s also still angry with him, both for leaving without saying goodbye and for giving her no idea what to make of their last evening together.

 _Were we supposed to just forget it? Like the rules of the game instructed? Oh, that cursed game._

Then, of course, it happens again. His tongue in her mouth, on her neck, almost reaching her breasts.

 

“M’Lady?” 

She looks at him and realizes her breath is short again. “Yes?”

“Are you alright? You look flushed. Are you feeling ill again?” 

Sansa realizes he is referring to the ship. He’d taken shifts guarding her door, as he always does, but Sansa is more than certain her pregnancy is still an ignorance of Pod’s so she just deflects.

“No, I think I’ve just had enough exercise for one day.” She smiles and stands, readying herself to go to her room. 

 

Her room. The place is a prison her body forces her back to, time and again, so she can continue to think of Jon in private. Picture his hands on her body, the hard ridge pushed against her, trying to dig its way through her skirts. And then cry again when she remembers him telling her it would never be. 

_Curse you Jon Snow. For leaving me here. Like this. With no hope of ever having you in my arms again._

 

She looks at Pod again as he reaches down to pick up another practice sword. Sansa tries to consider him. He’s attractive enough. Nothing that particularly stands out to her, but he’s a nice boy. _Maybe I could just fall in love with someone else... That, or just continue to pine miserably after a man who, even if he doesn’t die horrifically in battle, has refused me all the same._

Sansa sighs and lets the foolish plan fall away. Besides, it isn’t like she will be an old lonely widow. She’ll have Robin Arryn...

“Pod?”

“Yes, m’Lady?”

 

Sansa moves closer to him, too close, and eventually his naïve face catches on. “M..m’Lady?” He is moving back now but doesn’t have far to go before there is nowhere to go.

“Would you let me give you a kiss?”

He swallows and his voice cracks, “Huh?”

“As a reward. For all your heroism.” She leans closer and closes her eyes, deciding to act quickly before she loses her nerve. When his lips don’t come to meet hers, she opens her eyes again to see the poor man pressing himself as far back against the armory door as he can. Face turned sideways, lips pulled to the side, and eyes reaching for the sky. 

 

“What’s wrong?” Sansa stands back, and then the brutal clarity of what she is doing hits her like a thousand mirrors suddenly dropped out of thin air, pointed at her from all angles. 

“I… I’m sorry m’Lady. I just don’t want…” 

“Oh,” Sansa lowers her eyes in embarrassment. 

“No!” he tries. “I mean I do want, I mean I don’t, I mean I’ve never thought about, but... I _would,_ … only I wouldn’t. I mean I can’t. We can’t. You can’t.” He sighs tragically. 

 

Sansa grants him mercy and moves away from him so that he can catch his breath. When he does, he begs, “Please don’t tell Lady Brienne. She will kill me.”

"You didn’t do anything Pod," Sansa sighs in horrific mortification. "Don’t worry, I understand. I should never have asked. I know you would never dishonor yourself, or me. I’m sorry, truly. I just haven’t been myself lately.” 

“I know,” he offers a little more relaxed. 

 

She nods vaguely, even though he definitely doesn’t understand. But it is time to finish this torturous embarrassment, for both of them. She turns to leave but is halted from behind when he adds, “You miss him.” 

Sansa take a deeper breath than she’d meant to and turns back around, trying to keep her manner polite and casual. “Of course. He’s my brother and I worry about him.” 

Podrick nods strangely, as if conceding to an argument she hadn’t made. “Yes, m’Lady.”

She stares at him a little longer, and almost leaves it at that, but then he glances at her in a way that doesn’t need Littlefinger’s lessons to understand is hiding something. She moves closer again. Only this time she doesn’t rush it.

 

“What?” she asks genuinely. 

Pod lowers his eyes again, and insists weakly, “Nothing, m’Lady. Apologies. I shouldn’t…”

“Shouldn’t what?”

“I shouldn’t pry.”

“Pry into _what_?” 

The squire is fully afraid now and bites the inside of his mouth. Sansa’s expression turns from curiosity to an anxious plea that he mistakes for orders. 

“I just thought.. Well, aren’t you two.. You love him, I mean.”

 

The flush is completely gone now, all color drained from her face. 

 

***

 

“Which one is it?” Arya demands as her brother dismounts after her. “Where is he?”

“Arya, what are you-”

“Jon, tell me where to find him.”

His breath is short, exhausted from their chase back to camp. He'd been utterly thrown by his sister’s reaction when he'd told her that Sandor Clegane has joined the campaign for Winterfell. He'd expected, well, he doesn’t really know what he expected. But certainly not that instant sprint for her horse.

Arya looks at him with an impatient determination that he finds no way of answering other than to simply comply. “Follow me,” he groans and then starts to lead her around the border of the camp.

 

When they approach a tent that is spaced further from the rest, just on the border of the trees, she overthrows Jon’s pace and takes the lead. He quickens to catch up, but suddenly worries and calls, “Arya!” 

She turns to him, pausing while he closes the distance to her. But all he can think to say is, “Don’t kill him.”

Arya lifts an unpromising eye brow before returning to her mission, Jon trailing as best he can. They approach and he watches her storm into the tent unannounced before returning a half a second later. Jon doesn’t have time to wonder if she’d ended him that quickly before her searching eyes tell him Clegane must have not been in there. She moves towards the woods and Jon, again, follows. 

Arya sees it before Jon does, as she is closer, far too close in fact. 

Clegane emerges from the woods, looking down to his own massive dick as he works to return it to his trousers. He almost runs straight into her before lifting his fully stunned eyes to the girl now only inches away. 

 

Jon rounds her and stands to the side of them both, trying to gather all that is happening. He looks from her face to his and then back before the Hound spits his greeting.

“Well, if it isn’t the Stark bitch.”

Jon turns on him, but then his sister replies.

“How the _fuck_ are you still alive?”

Clegane smirks at her then and moves past them both, back toward his tent. Jon thinks they’ve been dismissed, but Arya seems to have other ideas. 

 

Before they reach the Hound’s quarters, a soldier approaches Jon. “My Lord! Ser Davos sent me to fetch you. He says it’s urgent.”

He turns back to Arya in order to give her instructions to stay out of sight until he can explain her presence to his men, but she is gone. So is Clegane. And the flap of his tent falls back into place. 

 

Jon pushes a frustrated hand into his brow before ripping it back again, then follows the soldier. _Seven hells.._


	24. No One

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More of Arya's journey gets revealed.

The Hound is sitting on the ground inside his tent. Even if he’d wanted to stand and face her, his head would have pushed through the canvas. Arya remains on her feet, though. They stare at each other for a while, one sizing up the other, one just amused at the sight in front of him. 

 

She remembers the day she took three lashes from Jaqen H’ghar for defending her hatred of this man. 

_A girl lies. To me, to the Many-Faced God. To herself._

“Where've ya been?” he asks her as if she’d only gone out for a stroll.

“Braavos,” she replies, unintentionally.

“Huh.” 

Sandor Clegane can hardly believe how different she looks. Her hair is longer, more like a girl’s than before. Only she clearly isn’t a girl. He’s not quite sure what she is. Her clothes are different, too. Like a Braavosi soldier, maybe? Loose, thin leather to allow for movement. No more ragged, worn tunics and breeches stinking of life as a gutter rat. 

She stands incomparably still. With her hands clasped behind her back she almost looks like a guard standing watch. That, or a cobra risen up for the strike. And her eyes… 

 

Arya’s large, heavily browed eyes have haunted Sandor Clegane throughout the years. The relentless scowl she’d given him so many times in frustrated defiance. The stupid child, never picking on someone her own size. 

The truest desire for murder he’d ever seen had come from her eyes, when she’d lunged for him after he’d won the trial by combat against Dondarrion. Those eyes still rush at him as he cowers for mercy in his dreams. 

But the worst are the eyes he pushes away with ale, or hard labor, or even prayer – the eyes that bring him too much shame to bear. Those are the tired, empty pools of defeat that watched her brother that night, crowned with his own direwolf’s head. He’d tear his own arm off to never see them again, to take it all back. 

He’d feared as often as he’d hoped that he would someday see her eyes again. But now, standing over him with an unbroken and relentless glare, were eyes he’d never seen before. Not on her, or anyone. Nothing was revealed through them, but they weren’t empty. No, there was something there, pulling through her with a force that might be… sacred. 

 

“How’s your list coming along?” he sneers, trying to maintain a smirk. The change in her is unnerving him.

“Only a few names left.” It isn’t much, but at least this was nearing the familiar. Then she jolts him as she adds casually, “Got Meryn Trant, though.”

The Hound lets out a small, “Pssh,” but she doesn’t argue. She doesn’t screech her defiant defense at him as she used to, only remains still and quiet. “How?” he adds.

“I found him at a brothel in Braavos. Getting off on beating little girls.” 

She waits to read his response. It is more than disgust, though. Concern. “I stabbed him in the eye with a jagged knife. Then I stabbed him in the other eye. Then the gut and the back, too. Finally, I pulled his head back and opened his throat.”

Sandor Clegane sees it, then. She’s telling the truth, all of it, only it's as if she were reciting a recipe for rabbit stew. _What happened to her?_

“Good,” he offers with a hard swallow.

 

Arya sits down, relaxing some of her manner at last. Somehow, she feels a warm comfort back in the presence of this man again. Maybe it is because they’ve killed together. He’s seen the pleasure in her face as she watched a life leave its eyes. She doesn’t have to protect him from that. 

“Why didn’t you kill me?” he mutters softly. 

It isn’t the question she was expecting to come next. Even more surprising though is his voice. It reminds her of the frightened little boy he’d sounded like when he’d begged her do it. _Do it._

“I was angry with you,” she confesses. “For dying. For leaving me like everyone else.”

He looks as if he might hit her, the way his face trembles then. Or cry. 

 

“How did you survive?” she asks again, only this time without the accusing profanity she'd spit at him by the woods.

He snorts then, grinning in a hateful reverie. “I found religion.”

Now it is her turn to snort, her face breaking against her will for a moment. 

He describes for her the day that the Elder Brother found him, and his days thereafter on the Quiet Isle. She would mock him for it, if she were still that girl, and if his telling of it hadn’t revealed just how different the man before her truly is now. They’ve both changed.

“Then I saw her," he concludes the tale. "Your sister. She was just there, on the Isle with your brother and the rest of them. The big bitch, too.”

“You've seen her?”

“You haven’t?” 

Arya shakes her head and a little more is revealed. She’d been happy to hear that Sansa was hidden away, safe in the Eyrie. She was protected. And Arya is protected from having to face her just yet. She isn’t quite ready for that.

 

“I found religion, too.” 

Arya hadn’t planned on revealing all her secrets, not ever, not to anyone. But something brought her voice from her then and she couldn’t stop it. “In Braavos, I sought out a man who’d helped me while I was at Harrenhal. I told you about him once, do you remember? The _real_ killer.”

Clegane shifts a little, adjusting his legs beneath him in interest. 

“He’d given me a coin made of iron and said if I gave it to any man from Braavos I’d be taken to him. All I had to do was say Valar Morghulis.”

“All men must die.” 

Arya narrows her glance at him, only for a beat. But the Hound just waits for her to continue. 

 

“I was taken to the House of Black and White, where the Faceless Men serve the Many-Faced God. The god of Death. And they worship by offering him names.” 

Clegane smirks at this. "Sounds fitting." Only Arya returns no hint of humor in her stony face.

She is looking through him, now, speaking to the ghosts in her mind. “I trained with them. Learned to fight and kill. And to forget myself. I killed off every part of Arya Stark until there was nothing left. Until I was no one.”

 

There is a long silence between them. He looks at her so intensely that she finally falters and turns her face, finding sudden interest in a crust of bread left strewn on the ground. She searches for a way to bring herself to her feet and exit his shelter, but the path won’t reveal itself to her. Finally, his expletive pulls her back with a jerk.

“Horse shit.” Her eyebrows flinch a bit, but then he adds, “You once told me that nobody was going to kill you. And I never believed something to be truer in my life. Nah.. You’re still in there. I can see it, even you can’t.” He chuckles then, causing her confusion. “The Stark Bitch lives.”

Arya can’t help but smile. 

 

***

 

Davos wisely chooses to inform Jon of what they’ve learned with Littlefinger safely back in his tent. Jon wasn’t known for hearing reason on a good day, much less with the distraction of murder clouding his attention. Still, it is obvious how unwelcome this information is, considering its source. 

“Davos, we don’t have time for this.”

“Well, if there is an assassin out there, capable of…”

“What? Wearing someone else’s face?” He balks at him.

“Killing an entire house undetected.”

 

Jon sits with frustrated exhaustion. In truth, he doesn’t want one more thing to think about. Not right now. Not with Arya back. They still have so much to talk about and all he cares to focus on is getting back to that. For a moment, in the woods with her, he’d almost forgotten this war entirely. Seeing her again felt so good, as if he’d been lifted right out of this world and placed in a dream. Only it’s not a dream. She’s here and he needs to prepare to let her go again. This place isn’t safe for her. 

“Davos, I need to speak with you about another matter.”

The older man is the one who takes a seat now, preparing for the worst as is his way. “Alright..”

“My sister’s here,” Jon begins, unsure how this will be received. 

“Lady Sansa?”

 

“No, not Sansa.” The voice startles them both and suddenly, she is there. Standing inside the tent as if she had been there the whole time. 

Davos looks at the smaller, slightly more female version of Jon now before him. Then he turns back, questioning the man with almost no answers to give. 

“Arya, this is Ser Davos of House Seaworth.” 

She simply nods and then turns back to her brother as the man she’d been introduced to hasn’t yet found a way to pick up his jaw. Jon can only smile. 

“I wondered if I could speak with you alone, when you have a moment.” Davos might’ve offered to leave them, if he’d caught up that far. Instead, Arya informs her brother, “I’ll be in your tent. No need to hurry.” Then she is leaving again, but Jon finds himself quickly calling after her.

“It’s the –”

“I’ll find it.” She calls back, disappearing into the approaching darkness of night. 

 

Davos finds his voice eventually. “And just where the fuck did _she_ come from?” 

Jon isn’t quite sure how to answer that question, for he still hasn’t learned the truth for himself. “Found her in the woods?” That clearly isn’t going to be enough. But Jon sighs, and just shrugs. He’s lost the energy to maintain his grip over all of the pieces tonight, but Davos has been there, untiring, to counsel and guide him through more than just this war so he offers what he can. 

“Honestly, I don’t have it all worked out just yet. We’d only just come across each other before we rode back to camp." Jon looks down at his knees, then adds, "I thought she was dead.”

His last words pull on Davos, as they come from a place of fear and loss, not military strategy. So, the surrogate father emerges as he never fails to do, when called for. 

“Go, be with your sister. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Jon shows his appreciation for the man with a half-grin before exiting with the speed of a restless child who’d just ended their lessons to go play in the woods. But as he approaches the tent, the excitement wanes as he remembers what he will have to tell her. She won’t go quietly, he knows that. It pained him to do this to Sansa, and it will pain him again to do it to her. But it has to be done.

 

He enters his tent, and sure enough she’s found it. He smiles at her, seemingly a reaction he can’t avoid. Every look at her is like coming back to life again, only without any fear or darkness haunting the revival. 

“You alright?” he asks. But her smirk is the only answer he’ll get to that question. He sits on his bed roll and pours them both a mug. “Come, sit with me.” 

Jon reaches out to her with the drink but she doesn’t take it. She doesn’t sit either and his face falls with concern. 

“What is it?”

Arya takes a deep breath, closing her eyes for a moment, then looks at him again with something almost like pity. “I need to show you something.” 

He puts both mugs down, truly afraid now. He’d never heard hesitation from Arya like this. Not as a child and certainly not in the woods today. When she elaborates it does nothing to ease his fears.

 

“You trust me, right? I… You might not like what it is. But please, just promise me you won’t scream. Okay?”

 _Scream?_ Jon goes pale. What terror will he be confront with now? 

“Are you hurt? Did... oh gods, Arya, did you kill Clegane?” 

“Jon.” She halts him with authority. “I _need_ you to stay calm.”

“Arya?” It's starting to be too much for him.

“Please. Just… just turn around, okay? Don't look at me.”

 

He stares at her for another moment in panicked confusion, but her pleading impatience wins out. He stands, giving her one last look of concern, before turning his back in resignation. 

It only takes a moment, but then he hears a throat clearing and he faces her again. Except she isn’t there. Jon’s eyes nearly pop from his skull as he opens his mouth in utter horror. 

 

“I told you not to scream,” Walder Frey croaks.


	25. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa changes course, and Arya learns about the war effort.

Sansa tries to keep it together.

She’d left Podrick in the armory after giving him the best false smile she could muster, as if to say “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean. Nothing unusual about a girl’s love for her brother. Now I must go and tend to something of importance, something befitting a lady.” But, in truth it was likely just the terrified grin of a mad woman. Then she'd run to hide like a child in her room. 

 

She sits on the edge of her bed trying to slow her breathing and cool her flush. Yet, the awareness keeps hitting again and again with slaps of humiliation. All she can see is every moment with Jon, seemingly in ignorant privacy, having forgotten she is always being watched. 

_We were quiet, though._ She floats back to the night of their first kiss. Hardly a whisper was shared between them. But the mind she wishes were still as stupid as it once was just reminds her that they’d spent night after night together sharing a bed. That, even after he’d stopped it, they spent the last night in each other’s arms, twice. With a guard at their door. 

Then she sees the day he’d stormed out, cock hard and furious. She’d seen it and feared the dream she was having had made her too restless in the night. _Oh gods,_ she hadn’t pulled so much as a cloak on over her night dress before opening the door to look after him. And Pod was there.

No, this is ridiculous. They’d all had to shift propriety aside for survival. All of them, together. 

 

Sansa places a hand on her stomach and presses against the last wave she knows is coming. She refuses, at first. _If I just don’t think about it…_ But then it hits her, like it has so many times since he left. 

His lips crushing her mouth. The suffocation of it. Her readiness to die in his arms right there if it meant not breaking free. Then he pushed, a sudden and deliberate lunge between her thighs, calling all her blood to the area in an instant, making her cry out in agonizing desire. And then, as if all weren’t lost already, as if she could still hold onto the hope of some misunderstanding, the final memory ends her for good. She’d called out his name. 

Sansa falls back onto her bed, covering her face with both hands. She barely has a chance to move past the shame in order to plan for how to cover this up before there is a knock on her door. 

 

“My Lady? I need to speak with you. It’s urgent.”

She leaps up, all thoughts of her plight vanished with another stab of fear for her brother’s fate. “Come in, Brienne!” 

When the blond woman enters her room, she makes a quick assessment of Sansa’s decency before leading another blonde into the room after her. A man, handsome despite his road-worn layer of filth. 

“I believe you know Ser Jaime Lannister,” Brienne introduces with haste. “He’s brought news from King’s Landing that you must hear at once.”

Sansa is still in such shock that she forgets to feel relieved that it isn’t news from the North. A new dread creeps in to replace the old as the words King’s Landing finally register.

“What is it? What…” 

Nobody waits for Sansa to adjust to all that is before her, there is no time for that.

“My Lady,” her once goodbrother begins. “I have come because Cersei is on the move. She knows that all of your sworn swords are heading north and she’s ordered my armies to come for you here and take you.”

 

Sansa lets out a horrified gasp. She looks at Brienne with complete misunderstanding, and wants to cry. Her body begins to tremble as she backs away from the man who has come to take her to her death. The worst of it, though is the realization that the protection she’d thought she’d been under was a lie.

With the wound of betrayal cutting deep, she looks at her most trusted protector and finds only one word. A question, so piercing it destroys its target on impact. “Why?” 

Jaime turns toward Brienne with utter confusion. He wonders if perhaps the fragile girl has lost all sense, but Brienne is shamefully aware of what’s happened and steps forward with gentle urgency.

“No, Sansa. He’s not here for you. It’s not happening now. He left the armies and he’s come to warn you. I’m sorry, I didn’t think.” She straightens up as she sees Sansa relax a little but still wary and completely lost. “Ser Jaime is my… friend. I trust him. I never would have lead him into the castle otherwise.”

 

Sansa holds her pounding chest and sits on the bed once more, trying to gather her thoughts as well as her breath.

“I’m very sorry, my Lady,” Jaime tries to offer. “I didn’t mean to frighten you. I swear on the oath I swore your mother that I am not here to harm you. Only to help. But please, you must understand what is coming.”

She looks at them both now, and stands with regained composure. Sansa is so tired of being wound up and frightened in this horrid tower, waiting for her fate to creep up on her. She’s had enough. 

“I understand, Ser Jaime.” She moves without another word to her desk, rolling up pieces of parchment and pushing them with haste into a leather bag. 

“My Lady,” Brienne approaches. “What are you doing?”

“Packing. I'm going to Jon.”

 

***

 

Jon tries to focus on what the Blackfish is saying. The war council routinely runs through strategies while they break their fast before marching on each day. But he can’t even pretend to be understanding what anyone is saying right now. The image from the night before is still seared into his mind.

It had made sense to him immediately, but that didn’t make it any less disturbing. It was only after she’d peeled the horrible face back off that the words came rushing together in his mind like a puzzle falling into place.

_She mentioned once that she had friends in Braavos._

_The North remembers._

_I'm different than who I used to be._

_She looked like you._

_Ruthless little killer._

 

“Jon?” He looks back at the four other men waiting for his input. “What do you think?”

“About what?”

“The plan.” Davos looks at him with concern while the others seem to simply be losing patience.

“I’m sorry,” Jon sighs. “Can you go over it again.”

“We send four men ahead of the siege,” Brynden says slowly as if speaking to a halfwit. “Over the wall in the cover of night.”

“Right,” Jon tries but the annoyance on Tormund’s face tells him he isn’t fooling anyone.

“To rescue the Red Woman,” Clegane growls loudly. This brings him to full alertness. “That’s what you wanted isn’t it? So that sick bastard can’t use her to –”

 

“What!” Arya appears from her covert position outside the tent where she’s been spying the plans.

Everyone turns to her at the same time, but it is Jon who answers first. “Arya, what are you doing here? You shouldn’t be –”

“The Red Woman? She’s part of this? That fucking _witch_?” She is practically screaming now. 

“Arya, you don’t understand.”

“I understand she’s evil. Jon! Listen to me. She… she…” Arya has to press her hands on the table to stop her anger from consuming her entirely.

 

Davos take the pause as an opportunity to step in. “How do you know the woman, m’Lady.” 

_She's on her list,_ The Hound thinks, but knows better than to contribute.

Arya is less easily swayed by the parental type and turns on Davos with a rage.

“I’m not a Lady, and you’d be wise to understand that, _Ser._ ” The threat in her voice is clear.

“Arya!” 

“No, Jon. Listen to me. That woman murdered my best friend. She stole him away from me, to sacrifice to that god of hers. He was just a boy!” The look of pained need for him to understand breaks his heart. 

“Arya, please. Settle down, why don’t we go talk outside.” 

“Who was your friend,” Davos interrupts steadily. She turns to find him looking at her with a frightened curiosity that she can’t make sense of through her rage. “The boy. What was his name?”

Arya pulls her eyebrows together in offended disgust. “Gendry,” she defends. She expects a dismissal, or worse a lecture on the worthlessness of low-born bastards. But instead she sees Ser Davos pulls his hand to his mouth, truly shaken. 

 

Jon sees it too. The shock on the old man’s face fades into a deeply sad understanding and his next request is made as a coarse plea. “Would it be possible if we spoke alone for a moment? If it please.” 

Arya doesn’t respond but Davos glances at the other men and they exit the tent. All but Jon. His presence needs no justification and meets no challenge, as Davos never intended for him to be included in the dismissal. 

“Arya,” Jon begins. “What’s going on? Who is Gendry.”

“I knew him,” Davos answers, but he is speaking to her. “He was a smith, from Fleabottom, yes?” 

She nods, not moving anything but her chin. Jon is focused on his most trusted advisor now. 

“He’s a good lad. Strapping young man.”

“He was,” she corrects with venom. “She killed him.”

“She didn’t.”

 

Arya allows for a slight widening of her eyes, but keeps it maintained. “Liar. How would you know? She got you bewitched, too?”

“No, m- no. I know she didn’t kill him because I’m the one who set him free and smuggled him out of Dragonstone. I was serving Stannis Baratheon at the time. I didn’t agree with the Red Woman’s methods, but I stood by him with loyalty.”

“Puh,” Arya spits in defiance.

“Loyalty,” he forces, “that reached its limits when he planned to murder that boy. I fought him on it. I begged him to find another way.”

“Another way for what?” Arya demands with fire in her eyes now.

“He believed the boy’s blood would be the sacrifice needed to prevail as King.”

“You mean _she_ believed it.”

“Yes,” he concedes as he looks down. “But when I couldn’t get them to see reason, I took matters into my own hands and helped him escape. I swear it. I’ve no idea if he is still alive, but I know the Red Woman didn’t kill him.”

“But she would’ve.” 

Davos looks back at her then with the truth in his eyes. She is disgusted and turns to Jon. Only he gives her nothing so she storms away.


	26. Little Sister

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Arya reveal more to each other.

Jon lets the armies go ahead and he stays behind to look for his sister. He approaches the wooded area around the camp with no real direction, only a sense that she will make herself known when she is ready. 

After a few hours, Jon dismounts from his horse to rest, securing the reins and then wandering for a while on foot. Finally, he stops and pulls a water skin from his hip to quench his thirst. He lifts it to his mouth but before he can swallow the first gulp it is ripped from his hand.

Jon gasps and looks to where the skin is now hanging from a tree trunk by an arrow. Then he smiles a little, pulling the arrow from the tree, and examines the prey now slowly leaking water from its wound. 

“You missed,” he calls out to no one.

“Must be rusty,” her voice responds from behind him and he turns to see the back of her disappearing through the trees.

 

When he catches up enough to have eyes on her again, she is standing on a slight hill facing southeast. She lifts the bow and releases. “Cersei,” he hears her say. Then another, straight south. “The Mountain.” The arrows seem to be flying toward no target, lost in the distant brush.

Arya turns southwest. “Beric Dondarrion.” One more, in the same direction. “Thoros of Myr.” 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks, finally reaching her while still maintaining cautious distance.

“Hunting,” she says before sending a final arrow true north. “The Red Woman.”

Arya looks at him and Jon can see the pain of betrayal revealed in her eyes. It is the most she’s looked like the little sister he once knew since they found each other again, and it makes him want to pull her into his arms. Instead, he just sits against a tree patiently. 

 

“Tell me about Gendry?” he asks softly, not expecting her to oblige. 

Arya lowers her bow and looks around as if considering whether to run off. Then Jon sees her take a staggering breath and she moves to him. When she sits, he offers the arrow back to her as a truce. She takes it and presses the tip against her finger with concentration.

“He was one of the Night’s Watch recruits I traveled with after King’s Landing. Everyone thought I was a boy then, even before Yoren cut my hair and started calling me Arry, so it was easy to blend in with the rest of them.” Jon tries to picture the scene and finds it quite easy. 

“One day the Gold Cloaks came upon us in the woods, so I hid because I thought they were after me. But they were looking for him, for Gendry. When Yoren scared them off, I tried to ask him what they wanted him for, but he didn’t know. He just said the Hand of the King had questioned him about his mother, just before he was executed.”

 

“Father,” Jon whispers curiously. 

Arya nods, adding, “And Jon Arryn before that. He’d come to see Gendry, just before he died too.”

Jon wonders what this could mean, but then her voice captures his attention again.

“Gendry wanted to know why I thought they were looking for me.” Jon can only see her out of the corner of his eye, but he swears that she smiles a little. “He said, ‘Did you kill someone, or is it just because you’re a girl?’ He was so much smarter than the rest of the idiot boys we were traveling with. I don’t know why, but I told him who I really was.”

“You trusted him,” Jon recognizes to himself. He knows how it feels to live in hiding, and what it means to find someone who can provide the relief of being yourself again.

 

“We were captured, eventually. The Gold Cloaks came back, with more men, and that’s when they killed Yoren.” She stands, needing to move around, but Jon stays still and watches as she examines the trees.

“They took us to Harrenhal and we slept in a stockade, in the rain and mud and shit, every night. And every day they would choose one of us to torture and kill. I couldn’t ever sleep because I was shivering and scared, so Gendry would hold me close as I said the names. There used to be more on my list back then.” 

Jon understands. It is a list of death, names to offer her god. The Faceless Men hadn’t made her a killer, they’d just provided her the education she sought out as a result of the pain she carried. 

 

“Jaqen H’ghar was the man who trained me in Braavos, but he’d been one of the recruits I traveled with as well. That’s how I met him. I saved his life when the Gold Cloaks attacked, so in return he helped us escape from Harrenhal. He offered to take me with him then, to train to become what he was, but I wasn’t ready. I needed to find Mother and Robb, to help them in the war. And I needed to find Sansa, too.” She considers this for a moment, and Jon recognizes the same disappointment he’d seen when she spoke of trying to save Father. 

_She’s always been so much braver than I could ever be_.

“We were free, then. But not for long. We tried to make our way toward Riverrun, but the Brotherhood Without Banners captured us in the woods. Beric Dondarrion and Thoros of Myr were the leaders. They said they would let us go, after feeding us and asking a few questions, but we were afraid. Everyone who’d been tortured at Harrenhal had been asked what they knew of the Brotherhood.

“They never hurt us, though. As far as I could tell, they were just a bunch of drunk thieves that roamed the countryside claiming to fight for the common folk in the name of the _Lord of Light_.” The disgust in her words reminds Jon that Arya has her own faith now. 

“I really thought we would get away, but then they captured the Hound and he recognized me at once. They knew then that they had a valuable hostage that could be traded for gold, a Stark.” 

 

She leans her back against a tree as if fusing with the strength of it and Jon sees true sadness flood her then. “I tried to plan an escape with Gendry. I asked him to come to Winterfell with me, to smith for Robb, but he told me he wanted to stay with them. He said he was done with serving lords and that the Brotherhood could give him what he never had before. A family.” 

She might be grown now, forged into hardened steel, but Jon sees that she is still just a child, too.

“I told him I could be his family.” Her eyebrows jerk with choking pain and he aches in the truth of his sweet little sister’s broken heart. “But he said I wouldn’t be his family. That I’d be his _lady_.”

She says the word with all the disdain Arya’s ever held for the title, but Jon recognizes something else in it that maybe she can’t. 

 

She shifts now, murder returning to her core as she lifts her head in defiance against her ghosts. 

“They betrayed him,” Arya spits out like venom. “His _brothers_. When that red bitch rode up saying she wanted to take him, to sacrifice him to her red god, they sold him off without a second’s thought.” 

Jon looks at her and is saddened by the knowledge of what she’s suffered. But then she meets his eyes, and all of the hatred she’d been aiming toward the memory settles directly on him. 

“Why, Jon?” she demands through furious tears. “Why are you with her? What does she want from you?”

 

He looks down at the stones between his feet in shame and lets out a sharp breath. Foolishly, Jon finds himself hoping she will understand, but he knows it is impossible. He hasn’t told her yet, but now it’s time.

“My brothers betrayed me, too,” he begins quietly. Jon’s eyes fade into the memory and it all starts to pour out of him. “They killed me, the men of the Night’s Watch. They told me someone had seen uncle Benjen beyond the Wall and so I rushed over to find out more. But it was all a trick.”

Arya moves closer, but her feet don’t seem to register any sound against the brush. “Jon. What do you mean, they _killed_ you?” 

He looks at her then, begging her to believe him. “I died. They stabbed me. One by one, until the last dagger hit my heart and I was gone. The Red Woman brought me back.”

 

Arya sinks to her knees, the way he had that night.

“I don’t know how she did it, or why.” He is pleading now. “And I know it’s sounds mad, but–”

“No,” she interrupts. “I’ve seen it before, when I was with the Brotherhood. The Hound killed Beric Dondarrion in a trial by combat. He’d sunk a sword through his shoulder, practically splitting him in two.” She looks at Jon with terrified understanding. “Thoros said a strange prayer over his body and then he was back. They told me it was the sixth time he’d died.”

Jon and Arya stare at each other now, sharing a strange connection they’d never thought possible. He tries to let this give him relief, but the memory of the darkness is too strong so instead he continues his meager explanation. 

“When Sansa and I left Castle Black, she was with us on the ship headed south. We hoped we could get to the Vale safely traveling by sea, but Ramsay Bolton ordered a band of pirates to attack the ship upon our landing. Lady Melisandre sacrificed herself and was taken prisoner so we could get a way.”

Arya looks down, conflicted and still in pain. Jon can see that she doesn’t trust the woman’s motivations and he is reminded of his own shameful suspicions. But then the words she spoke that night come back to him, words that had all but disappeared in his preoccupation with what happened after. 

_I’ve done things I can never undo_. 

 

“I’m sorry about your friend, Arya. I’m sorry she did that to you. And I’m glad Davos stopped her from killing him, he sounds like a good man.” 

Jon doesn’t say ‘but.’ He sees her anger fade some now, revealing her anxious concern.

“It isn’t safe to trust her, Jon. I don’t want her to take you, too.”

“I know.”

“So why are you helping her?”

Jon sighs, searching for a way to make her understand. “She told me once that she had made a lot of mistakes, and that she could never undo those things. I have, too.” His face winces a little at this and Arya sees. She can see everything and she hates it, so she sits back in decided resignation. 

“She tried to make things right by helping me, and by helping Sansa.” 

 

The way he says her sister’s name catches Arya’s attention so she decides to take the opportunity to shift her focus away from the Red Woman. “What’s she like now?”

Jon answers with a slight, but sad grin. “Different. Harder than before, like you. The things she’s suffered… I don’t know how she survived. You were always tough but even still, I was amazed you made it through. Sansa, though… I never would have expected what I saw the day she showed up at Castle Black.”

“What?”

“Strength.” The simple word takes Arya by surprise and she leans in to hear more. “She’d jumped off the walls of Winterfell to escape that monster. That alone should have killed her. The trek through the woods to Castle Black should have killed her, too. She should have been broken by what he did to her, but she wasn’t.”

Arya feels a familiar heat rise up in her. “Jon,” she commands. He brings his eyes to up to meet hers and the fire surges between them. “Promise me you’ll make him suffer.” 

“I swear it,” he vows.

 

Arya moves to sit next to him again, and he feels relieved in the comfort of it. They watch a bird wrestle to pull its supper from a tree's knot for a while. The quiet is peaceful and for a moment it feels like they are children again, playing together in the woods.

“It’s strange,” Arya says vaguely and Jon looks at her with an odd confusion. 

“What’s that?”

“Just… you and Sansa, working _together_ on something. If you’d have asked me back then…” She shakes her head and shrugs.

Jon laughs. “I seem to recall having the exact same thought, more than once. But like I said, we’ve _all_ changed.”

Jon musses her hair and she shoves him away with a smirk. “Right, I’m an assassin that can change faces, and Sansa’s a decent person.” He glares at her, attempting to curve his grin into a reprimanding scowl. “Only joking,” she offers repentantly. She laughs and he wraps an arm around her to pull her closer. 

 

“I think you’d be proud of her,” Jon says sincerely. “She is harder now, it’s true, but she’s softer in many ways, too.” Arya feels him reflecting on this and then he grows colder, releasing his embrace as if afraid to touch her now. 

“When I died,” he swallows the word. “When I came back I was different. I had a darkness living in me that truly scared me. Sometimes it still does.”

Arya feels herself compelled to reach out to him, to protect him. She places a gentle hand on his arm, pressing her strength into him, and Jon covers her hand with his, finding peace.

 

“If it weren’t for Sansa,” he continues. “I would have been lost. I mean _really_ gone, Arya. Forever. I can’t begin to tell you how many times she’s pulled me back from that. Far more than I ever had any right to ask of her, but she did. She does.” 

A violent shock of truth hits Arya in the chest then, and she is winded. His pulse, his eyes, his breath. It is all right there. _Oh, gods..._

“We fought our way back, just like you did, and now we are going to take back our home. We are going to take back the North.”

Arya wants to believe that he means all of them when he says _we_. She sees that Jon loves her, just as he always has, and that he would do anything for his family. But she sees so much more now, too. The blinding clarity of it threatens to overwhelm her in an instant, but she gathers all of her skill to maintain a steady appearance. 

 

“Yes,” Arya begins. She stands and moves to gather her cloak from over the branch where she’d hung it. “Only, I’m not going with you.” Fastening the garment, she looks pointedly at his concerned face and adds, “Isn’t that right?”

Jon’s flinches with realization and regret as he’d almost let himself forget. “Arya, I’m sorry. I know you want to fight but I just can’t risk it. I can’t risk you.” 

“It’s alright, Jon. I have something to take care of anyway.” She starts to ready her horse and he moves to her, quickly.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean I won’t be going to the Eyrie either.”

“Arya,” Jon tries but she places a hand on his chest to silence him. 

“I’ll be back, Jon. Don’t worry.” 

Jon squeezes his hand around hers, begging helplessly. “It isn’t safe. Please, at least let me send guards with you.” But Arya just soothes him by pressing her hand closer against his heart. 

Then, from the trees emerges the pack of wolves. They surround the two at a distance and wait in perfect formation until the great Direwolf appears between them with five arrows clenched in her jaw. Each has a rabbit hanging from it by the eyes. 

Jon smiles sadly and thinks of Ygritte, understanding his fierce little sister more now. She’s never needed his protection. Still, it doesn’t make losing her again any easier and tears begin to fall quietly into his beard.

 

“Where will you go?” Sansa had asked him this question at Castle Black but he knows he won’t be given the same response. 

Arya moves to Nymeria and collects the small game. “If Gendry is alive, I need to find him. I don’t know where he went, but I have a theory and so I will start there.” She pulls the bloody arrows free and replaces them in her quiver. “It shouldn’t take long. I just need to know that he’s alright.” 

Jon helps her string the rabbits onto the saddle of her horse. Then she looks at him as if to say goodbye, but he pulls her into a tight embrace before she can speak and they hold each other for as long as they can. Their hearts beat in one rhythm, two warriors on different paths, leading to the same castle. 

“I’m going to miss you,” he urges into her ear. “Please, _please_ be safe.”

Arya pulls him even tighter whispers. “I _will_ come back. I promise.” Then she releases him and says, “Goodbye Jon.”

 

He watches her leave and then remains alone in the woods for a while longer, fighting against the urge to abandon his mission and follow her on her own. He knows it won’t take long before she is untraceable, and so he waits. When he does emerge, Jon points his steed north and marches on.

 

Arya rides far and fast, putting as much distance between them as possible. Then, when she can’t bear it any longer, she stills her horse and bends over the saddle. The tears come hard, so hard that she thinks she might scream. She allows it to wash over her, giving herself just this moment to release it all at last. Then she rides on, making her way back to King’s Landing.


	27. Choices

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Brienne, Jaime, Bronn, Podrick, Sansa and Sweetrobin make camp.

By the time they finally make it to the foothills of the terrain, Brienne and Jaime are still arguing. Sansa has refused to participate, having made up her mind in the Eyrie, but that doesn’t stop Brienne from continuing to offer suggestions of where else they might go to find safety. 

“We could take her to Tarth,” she pleads as they set up camp. 

“They know she’s with you. They know you are Brienne of _Tarth_. Besides, we’d risk running into the Lannister forces head on.” It still feels strange to be referring to the army he once commanded, the army his father built, as the enemy. But that’s what they are. Jaime has chosen his side.

“I’m telling you, Cersei will find her no matter where we go. All we can hope for is that by the time the army gets even remotely close to her, we will have her surrounded by two loyal forces.”

Brienne glares at him again but he’s used to it. “Just build a fire,” she commands the soldier even though Pod has already started the process. Jaime decides to obey, but only for the chance to get away from her scowl.

 

Sansa busies herself with soothing Sweetrobin, glad for any task that puts distance between her and Brienne at the moment. 

“My legs hurt! I don’t like riding horses. They’re mean, all of them!”

“I know, my love. It will only be for a little while longer. Perhaps tomorrow you can ride with me, would that be better?” He pouts as she sits next to him, placing a fur around his shoulders. “Soon we will have a fire and you will be nice and warm. Are you hungry?”

“No.”

“Okay, well then how about a story? I could tell you about the Dance of Dragons again.”

“No!” 

“Shhh, my love. We mustn’t let anyone hear us.”

 

Podrick moves to them, having been usurped by the Kingslayer in his duties of building the fire, and sits on the other side of Robin. “My Lord,” he addresses the child kindly. Sansa is so grateful for the assistance that she forgets to avoid eye contact with the squire and smiles at him in appreciation. “Have you ever heard the tale of the Great Falcon?” 

This catches the boy’s interest. “I have a Falcon! Uncle Petyr gave him to me. We had to leave him in the Eyrie though.”

“Yes, I know. It was a fitting gift for such a powerful and wise lord. Falcons are some of the most fiercely intelligent and magical creatures the gods ever put in this world.”

“Magic?”

“Oh aye. Especially the Great Falcon. Why, legend has it that the Great Falcon lived for thousands of years. In fact, some say he’s still around even now, soaring through the night sky hunting for prey and protecting noblemen.”

“Birds can’t live that long,” Robin argues, but his attention remains held.

“Normally, no. But the Great Falcon served the gods long before entering the world of men. They missed him, though, so they gave him the power to fly home to them whenever he wants. The world of the gods is beautiful, but there’s not much prey for him to hunt as he prefers to feast on bad men.”

“He does?”

“Aye, so he always comes back, and each time starts a new life all over again. There are plenty of bad men in this world to keep him full and strong. I’d wager, he’s probably come at night to feast on some of the men you’ve made fly through the Moon Door.”

“Really??” 

“Wouldn’t surprise me.”

 

Jaime glances at the huddled three once the fire begins to rear up. It had taken him a while with one hand, but no matter. It was just longer he’d been spared the relentlessness of his dear friend. But he returns to her now, and offers to help her pitch the canvas. She ignores him, of course, but his focus is still aimed across the distance. 

“They almost look like a happy family,” he says quietly to himself. Brienne turns her attention to what he means and balks. 

“Hardly. Lord Arryn is fit to wed Sansa in name and title alone.” She stands then, and examines the scene more thoughtfully. “At least she’ll be safe, though. Can’t imagine he’d harm her, and if he ever wanted to she’s smart enough to better him even without my help.”

Jaime watches Brienne’s face as she speaks and realizes that, while she will never relax her intense protection of Lady Sansa, she has great pride in the girl. He also finds the change in topic to be a relief so he tries to keep it going. “What do you think about Pod?”

“He’s a bit slow on the whole, but overall he’s been a quite honorable squire. And he’s fiercely loyal. I respect him.”

 

Jaime recognizes what high praise this is, coming from her, and wonders if she’s ever said these things to the boy himself. “I’m thrilled for you,” he goads. “But I meant what do you think about him and Sansa.”

“What?” she demands, more loudly than she’d intended. He just smirks at her.

“I’m serious. They are both young and attractive. And they seem to get on well enough. Do you think there is maybe something scandalous going on?”

“Be decent, Ser.” Brienne moves to the next canvas dismissively but he follows, enjoying the discomfort he can still arouse in the woman.

“Oh, come now Lady Brienne. Surely even you can’t be that naïve. Young people–”

“I’m perfectly aware of what the young get up to.” Her words end his antagonism, as he doesn’t want to argue anymore. 

He smiles at her in apology and she rolls her eyes, taking a seat on a log to begin skinning the goat that will be their supper. Jaime sits next to her, a fascinated audience. Her quick skill reminds him of his father’s favorite sport. But when he looks at her face again, he can see she is truly upset.

“I was only playing,” he offers but she shakes her head.

“No, it isn’t that.” Brienne pauses for a moment, before finishing her flay of the first leg. “I just worry for her is all.”

“She’ll be with her brother,” he tries in hopes that it will comfort her. It doesn’t.

“That’s what I’m worried about.” 

“I’ve heard stories of the man, all the way in King’s Landing. People says he’s quite a fierce warrior. I don’t think he’d let any harm come to her.” Jaime watches but her eyes glance toward Sansa for a moment and he sees that there is something more. “What is it?”

 

She sighs in frustration as she starts to peel the next leg and Jaime looks back at the beautiful youth flanking the wretched child. Podrick is charming and handsome, and quite literally rescued the young lady from her monstrous husband. Well, he helped anyway. He doesn’t remember much of Lady Sansa, but he does recall her affinity for chivalry. But when he looks at her, she hardly registers the budding knight. 

It makes sense, he supposes. After all she’s been through she must be preoccupied with safety and winning back her home. But upon closer examination, he notices her gaze into the fire isn’t one of fret. No, she’s thinking of someone. Longingly.

Jaime turns back to Brienne and the concern she is now pointing toward him suggests she sees it too. “You don’t think… Is there something between Lady Sansa and her–”

“Don’t say it,” she cuts him off again. Then Brienne looks down at the task she’s no longer attending to. She drops the blade and wipes her hands on a rag, looking exhausted. Jaime feels for her then, only just beginning to see the weight she is under.

Jaime steps on the hoof of the leg she’d abandoned and pulls back from the incision. It is an attempt at being helpful, a poor one, but Brienne smiles in appreciation anyway. “You know you can talk to me, right? At least I hope you know that.”

Brienne prepares her back to straighten and her jaw to stiffen, but instead she finds herself speaking words that she’d hardly allowed herself to think. “They’ve grown quite close since she returned to him at Castle Black. At first, I just assumed it was to the relief of having family again, given all they’d both endured. But, then I started to notice something… more.”

“More,” he repeats.

“More than just brother and sister,” she concedes with frustration at having to say it.

“Ah,” Jaime teases. “Something a bit more fitting of the Targaryens maybe?”

“Or the Lannisters,” she retorts a little too cruelly. Jaime’s face falls at this and all humor drains from his eyes. Brienne instantly regrets it. “I didn’t mean… I’m sorry.”

 

“No, no. It’s fine. I am well aware of what people think of me, Lady Brienne.”

“I don’t,” she offers but he only scoffs. “Honestly, I don’t fault you for your feelings. I know you love her, I could always see that. When Roose Bolton made you believe for a moment that she was dead, I don’t know if I’ve ever witnessed a crueler act.”

He is quiet for a moment, reliving the scene, then says, “Not even putting an unarmed woman in a pit to fight a bear?”

“I wasn’t a witness to that Ser Jaime, I was a participant. And I wasn't unarmed.”

“You had a wooden sword.”

“Not the point.” She puts her hand on his arm and Jaime looks at goat’s blood now staining his sleeve. He almost laughs thinking of the state he’d sunk to after being taken prisoner by Northmen. Brienne had suffered equally, but was never so close as he to being broken by it all. “Jaime, I swear that I hold no judgement over you. We don’t get to choose who we love.”

He looks at her then, as she speaks his words back to him with honesty. Something stirs in him and he can’t help but get lost a little in her crystal eyes. But then she pulls them from him, moving her gaze back to her first priority.

 

“In truth, I think he’s been good for her. She’s stronger than she looks, but after what that animal did to her…” she clenches her teeth with the thought. “Even the fiercest warrior would find it difficult to come back from that. I wouldn’t have.” She looks down at his golden hand, remembering the sacrifice that had earned him it. Jaime sees the guilt in her face but refuses to allow it.

“So why the concern? If she’s marrying that sickly child, surely a little clandestine affair with someone so devoted to her couldn’t be the worse fate the girl’s faced.” 

Brienne wrinkles her nose a little, unable to mask all of her former ideals of propriety. Still, she is no longer as blind to the world she once was, so she softens again. “My opinion on the matter is of no importance. And if it were, I’m of the mind that Lady Sansa deserves any and all love she ever wants. She’s earned it, truly.”

“What, then?” he presses as she returns to her preparation of the poor fallen beast. 

“It’s just,” she begins but then stops to consider things fully for a moment. “Everything she’s fought for, that she will fight for, depends on the Northern lords supporting her and Jon, a bastard. Neither has any true claim to power and Ramsay will do anything to remind them of that. What do you think they’d do if they found out?”

 

Jaime admires everything about her. While the ignorance of youth surrounds her, plunging head first into war and love, she alone seems to be holding the burden of realism in her mighty grip. He concedes and returns to assisting her with the goat. 

“I don’t,” he says quietly. Jaime isn’t sure what compels him but he continues, anyway. “Love her. Not anymore.”

Brienne watches the sad defeat fill his features and it is the first time she’s seen the wear of age in him. But she waits, offering an ear to her friend.

“I blame myself for Myrcella. I was there with her, she was in my arms and I failed protect her.” His chin trembles and she sees his eyes begin to water. “I even take responsibility for Joffery, in a way. I was never a father to any of them.”

“You couldn’t’ve–” Brienne offers but he stops her short with defiance.

“I could’ve done more.” He sighs then, letting the past haunt him fully. “I tried, with Tommen. I wanted to help him, guide him through the responsibility he was never supposed to hold. He was too young, too good. I had hope that Margaery would be good for him, too.” He laughs a little at this. “She was certainly any boys dream for a wife, but she was also smart, cunning. She’d even started to be good influence on Joff. And Tommen loved her, truly, the way only a young king can with his first taste of it.” 

Jaime pulls one of the goat’s legs up and allows Brienne to butcher it at the hip, before placing it on the grass. “But she couldn’t handle that. The jealousy in her, the spite.” He’s angry now and Brienne watches him carefully. “She killed her, along with half the city, and he watched it happen. Our baby boy _threw_ himself from a window while she sated herself in the dungeons torturing a septa.” 

“I’m sorry,” she says quietly now. Jaime looks at her again, with a desperate plea for something she can’t know.

“There was a time when I would do anything for Cersei. Even murder a little boy.” The tears fall now and it is too hard for her to watch.

 

“People change,” Brienne counsels the goat. “All of us.”

“That doesn’t absolve me of my sins.”

“No,” she agrees. Then she pulls what strength she has and meets his eyes again. “You loved her, and she loved you. And you both loved your children, but war and oaths and bloody human failure strips those things away. Piece by piece. It isn’t right and it isn’t fair. But it’s the way things are.”

Jaime mourns Brienne’s loss of faith in what once armed her purpose. He wishes he could give it back to her, give her the just world she deserves, but he can’t.

“I don’t want to be that man anymore,” he confesses. She narrows her eyes on him as if searching for a lie but he won’t do that to her. “I’d gotten used to my role as a man without honor, accepted it and played the part well, until I met you.”

“Ser Jaime,” she resists, ever intolerant of praise aimed in her direction.

“No, I mean it.” Jaime turns more fully toward her and demands her attention with his forceful gaze. “You showed me who I really was. That I do care about honor, and that I could be something more. You’re the only one who ever has.” His eyes release her again and she almost falls back with the jar. “I only wish I had been able to believe it sooner.”

They remain quiet for a time, with only the sound of steel on flesh between them as they finish the goat. When they rise to carry the meat over to the fire Brienne almost says something but they are interrupted by vulgarity.

 

“The perimeter is secure m’Lords and Ladies. Those fancy fucks won’t be letting so much as a squirrel get within a hundred yards, I’d say.” 

Bronn had kept mostly scarce while preparations were swiftly carried out in the Eyrie. He remembered the last time he’d been there and hadn’t wanted to remind the mad little lord of being robbed the chance to see him fly. Feeling notably more secure now, he saunters toward the group.

“Thank you, Ser Bronn,” Jaime replies with an embarrassed yet amused grin. “We’ll be eating soon, come warm yourself by the fire.”

The six of them huddle in the heat of the flame, watching as the game begins to roast. Podrick is trailing off the end of his story, strategically quieting each word as Lord Arryn’s head grows heavy against Sansa’s breast. 

“Should we make sure he eats first,” Podrick asks her, nodding toward the quickly fading boy. 

“He’ll be alright,” she assures. Sansa adjusts her aching shoulder from around Sweetrobin and gently shifts his head into her lap. “I’ll put some fruit and nuts near his bed so that he can have them when he wakes in the middle of the night. Which he will. Often.” She smiles a little and Podrick watches her brush her fingers through the child’s hair. The snoring begins and it is confirmed that sleep has mercifully taken hold.

“I’ll take him to his tent,” Podrick offers. Then stands and lifts the boy without waiting for her reply. 

 

Bronn offers Sansa some meat and she takes it politely. Looking around she wishes for the company of Podrick again, unsure how to hold court with this bunch. Brienne offers an apologetic glance of knowing and does her best to start a conversation.

“We’ll start again at first light, if it please. Wherever we go, we’ll need to get there as quickly as possible.”

It isn’t a wise topic for dinner and Brienne realizes her error when Sansa’s face tenses in frustration. Jaime deflects, sort of, and asks, “How far north have Jon’s forces reached?”

“The last raven said he was approaching the Neck,” Sansa answers. “But that was almost a week ago. He could be all the way to Moat Cailin by now for all I know.”

“I doubt it,” Bronn contributes uninvited. “With a force that large they won’t be moving too fast. Besides, they’re in no hurry. Winterfell ain’t goin nowhere and they’ll want to be as rested and well fed as possible when the siege begins.”

“My lady,” Brienne persists. “I still think we should consider another course. What about Pyke?”

“The Ironborn?” Jaime is floored at this. “Even if that wretched heir of Baylon’s–”

Sansa glares at him but decides to keep her mouth shut since he’s arguing her side. Still, Jaime gets the message and recalculates his phrasing. 

“Even if we could insure the support of Pyke, they are no match for the Lannisters. You have to understand, Cersei is more powerful now that she’s ever been. She has the Tarley’s backing her, and a horrid version of what was once the Mountain, made near invincibly strong through a dark sorcery of some sort by that failed maester Qyburn. Who knows what other tricks he’ll pull out of his bag for her. Do I need to remind you of the Wildfire?”

 

Brienne feels put in her place, ganged up on, but her reason prevails over her ego as it always has and she realizes they are right. She sits quietly, chewing on her most recent kill. When nobody continues she looks at them with frustration only to find all eyes waiting on her command.

“Well, don’t all just stare at me like I’m your mother,” she bites. “What’s the quickest way to Moat Cailin?”

Sansa smiles in relief and appreciation. Brienne finds it warms her despite herself and she relaxes her defenses more fully. Jaime is the first with a plan.

“We could ride hard straight up the King’s Road. We shouldn’t have much trouble catching up in good time and I can guarantee the forces from the south won’t reach us before that.”

“I’m not sure Robin could manage,” Sansa replies. “Besides, Cersei isn’t the only threat we face. There will likely be Bolton scouts all over the Neck.”

“The knights guarding us could handle any Bolton who’s somehow slipped past your brother, my Lady.” Brienne sounds surer than she is. “Still, I agree that the King’s Road is too dangerous.”

 

“What if we sail up the Trident?” Bronn suggests with full mouth. Jaime looks at him with a disapproval that is entirely different than the one Brienne aims at the poor manners. “We could take the Green Fork all the way up to Greywater Water before the Lannister army makes its way out of the Mountains of the Moon if you ask me.”

“So, we should just lead Sansa straight into the hands of the Freys, is that what you’re suggesting?” Brienne has had just about enough of this rude man.

“Oh, you haven’t heard? Well, I suppose word doesn’t travel too fast up great white towers.”

Brienne turns to Jaime as he finishes the warning glare toward his man. “Walder Frey is dead. All of the Freys, in fact, only nobody seems to know who did it. They were all poisoned at a feast apparently and no force has yet to take the credit. The plan was to garrison the Twins once Jon Snow’s armies moved further North.”

 

Sansa and Brienne look at each other but there is no time for theorizing just now. “It’s still too dangerous,” she insists. 

“Look, you asked how we get there fast. That’s how we get there fast. Only offering a suggestion.”

“And wouldn’t this require a ship, Ser Bronn?” Jaime mocks at the once sell-sword’s title.

“Aye, I imagine it would.” He stands, wiping the grease from his hands on his trousers. “Lucky for you, I know someone in Harroway that owes me a favor.”

“I hope it’s a big favor,” Jaime offers despite knowing better by now.

“Oh, that it is.” Bronn smiles wickedly and then excuses himself to piss in the woods.

Brienne looks at Jaime with concern but then turns her attention back to Sansa. However, the unrelenting delight now spread across the girl’s face reveals the futility of debating the matter any further. Brienne decides it is time they all turn in and once again plays her role of nurse-maid, ordering them all to bed. 

Podrick reemerges, ready to dine only to see the camp deserted.


	28. Closing In

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon builds a strategy to take Moat Cailin and Sansa travels up the Trident.

“No southern army has ever breached Moat Cailin,” Jon mentions again. 

It's been too long, Davos thinks. They are all thinking it as they await news from the men Jon sent ahead to gather the measure of the Moat’s current defenses. 

 

Lord Royce decides to offer his version of encouragement. “Forgive me, my Lord, but the Knights of the Vale–”

“Are a southern army.” Jon is growing impatient. He can’t afford to lose support, but he can’t afford to lose any men either. 

It is said that Moat Cailin, when properly defended, could beat back an army ten times the size of its own. Jon was sure that Ramsay would swell the three remaining towers with more archers than there were stones still standing at the ruins. 

“Perhaps we should find another way to get the army north,” Davos suggests. 

“There is no other way," Jon insist. "We need to take the causeway and the Moat if we are going to march north.” He sighs and takes another drink of ale, thinking. 

Davos is losing patience as well. “Then what should we do? Send more scouts? Or charge on, because I don’t think those men are coming back.”

 

“No.” Jon stands suddenly, looking out into the dark marsh that looms closer to the King’s Road every day. “I’m going.”

Tormund pulls him back by the shoulder, nearly dislocating it. “You fucking little shit!” Jon looks at him defensively but Tormund pushes on. “I thought you told me you knew you weren’t a god. Just because you came back to life once doesn’t mean you get another chance. Or have you forgotten you lost your Priestess?”

“I haven’t forgotten,” Jon spits.

“But you think you are going to go head first into the Moat and take it all on your own. I know how you think. Mance would have killed you if Stannis hadn’t swamped us, and he’s not in that castle.” 

Jon pushes back now, closing in on Tormund as if the man weren’t nearly twice his size. “I know that, and it's not a castle." He pulls back from his friend now, and explains. "I’m not going to Moat Cailin. I’m going to get help, and you’re coming with me. Now take off your clothes.”

 

They all watch him leave the tent then, none more stunned than Tormund who waits no longer than a blink to follow. Jon is near the bank of the marsh laying out a flat canvas. He pulls off the cloak Sansa made for him and bundles it up before placing it on the sheet. Next, he takes off his doublet and jerkin, placing them with the cloak. 

Tormund truly wonders if the man has lost it and asks, “What are you doing?”

Jon looks at him as he starts to pull open his belt and says, “You're not afraid of lizard-lions, are you?”

“Are you hoping to get fucked on your last night in the world, boy? Is that it?” 

Jon smirks and finishes removing his sword and scabbard before placing them on the pile.

The other councilors have joined and the Blackfish realizes aloud, “You’re going to try to find Howland Reed.” 

Tormund looks at him and then back to Jon who is pulling his tunic over his head. The scars covering his body are a reminder that Jon has always found a way to prevail. Die, maybe, but prevail. Accepting that there is a plan in place somewhere, Tormund joins him, and only hopes it finally involves fighting. The prospect is enough though and he throws his spear on the pile, then begins to follow Jon in undressing without a further question. 

“Greywater Watch is said to be impossible to find. The castle moves, doesn't it?” Davos offers. There isn’t doubt in his voice, only concern.

Jon bends down and captures clumps of mud in both fists, then brings them to his chest, smearing the wounds of his brothers’ betrayal like a salve. “I don’t need to find it. I just need the crannogmen to find me.”

The Hound usually doesn’t interfere unless necessary, but he feels compelled to point out what nobody else is. “And if they kill you?”

“Then the rest of you will need to come up with something else. But I’m hoping that won’t happen.” Jon continues to cover himself with mud as Tormund removes the remaining layers from his torso. “House Reed and the crannogmen have aligned with House Stark and defended the North from southron invasion for thousands of years. Tormund and I both have the blood of the First Men.” Jon looks at the wildling then, joyously slapping mud on his bearded face, and then turns back to the others a bit less sure. “Let’s hope that means something.”

“Get my back.” The crazed mud man smiles at Jon before turning around and he can’t help but wonder if this is a good idea. 

 

***

 

As they sail up the Trident, Sansa stands on the deck of their small boat looking out into the blackness of night. Her mind fills with the last time she traveled by water, and how it ended, as a chill of fear courses through her arms, her legs, and her back. But the promise of growing closer to Jon with every oar stroke forms a warm cloak of protection around her in the dark. 

In the distance, she thinks she sees the flash of a firefly. Looking closer she sees it again, only it doesn’t disappear like the flickering of a bug. The bright yellow dot is steady and it is joined by others. Soon the entire bank is dotted in specks of reflective, still light. _Eyes_. Then two more appear, centered between the rest, only larger and brighter. 

Something far away reminds her she should be afraid, that she should alert the others and get back under covered safety. But the large floating orbs have her in a captivated trance so that she is unable and unwilling to move. A breath fills her suddenly, like a gift she wasn’t expecting, and Sansa’s heart pounds with a love she can’t remember. She doesn’t know why this is happening, and won’t even contemplate it for days to come. Right now, the only thing she knows is the overwhelming joy that fills her chest. 

Two by two the eyes disappear, leaving only the pair that hold her own. For a moment, she feels a strange compulsion to dive into the river and go to them, but then they vanish as well. Sansa regains her awareness and slowly carries herself back to bed. 

 

That night, she dreams of her sister.

 

***

 

Two dark figures wade through the waist-deep marsh, a bundled mass hanging between them from the pole resting on their shoulders. The screams of the night assault their ears - hissing and croaking and rattled cackling all around them. They wouldn’t speak even if they could hear each other, as just another floating island among the crannogs has no voice. 

Something moves in the water and they still. Jon can feel a thick, muscled tail grope his leg before it swims away, and he realizes he’s tread on the creature’s bed. His heart pounds harder but he controls the fear enough so that his breath remains steady. Then he continues his forward slog with Tormund following closely, the two moving as one. 

 

They got lucky, Jon thinks. But the relief is premature as suddenly he realizes they are now surrounded by a terrifying, deafening silence. The song of the swamp has ended and clumps of floating moss begin to rise up from the dark water around them. 

Jon's hand tightens around the dagger strapped to his back. Then a low grumble meets his ears and he knows it is Tormund readying himself as well. But before either man can so much as flinch in defense and large and heavy net tightens around them as they are submerged beneath the water. 

 

When consciousness returns to him, Jon opens his eyes to a strange new world. He can’t tell if he is inside or out. There are walls built from the wood of the same oak trees that stand within them, and moss creeps down to the edges of the floor made of tiny polished pebbles. He looks up but sees no sky, only a lush covering of vines. Something moves in them and he recognizes the tip of a snake’s tail before it disappears into the greenery. 

He sits up and realizes he is in some sort of bed. The pallet is made of tightly bound reeds layered with thatch and mud. Jon shifts and feels the cling of his wet trousers and boots, then sees that his chest is still bare, but clean. The mud must have come from him. Suddenly a cloak drops onto his lap, his cloak, and he looks around to see a man standing at the edge of the room, smiling.

“It’s a good thing you had direwolves etched into that,” the small, but strong man says. “Otherwise, my men might’ve killed you instead of bringing you here.”

“You’re Howland Reed.” Jon finds his voice strained with something invading his throat. He spits dark green sludge into his hand and wonders how long he’d been underwater. 

“Yes, and you’re Jon Snow. Ned’s son. When you’re feeling ready, get dressed and we’ll talk.”

Before he can answer, the man disappears through an archway of branches. Jon take a few more moments to assure he isn’t dreaming, then remembers Tormund and jolts from the bed.

 

***

 

The air grows colder the farther north they reach and all but Robin Arryn stand in cautious observation on the deck. They are approaching the Twins.

“You’re sure about this?” Brienne asks again. “They are all dead.”

“That's what every report has delivered," Jaime answers. His hand remains on the hilt of his sword nonetheless. "Only women and children remain in the castle, and if they’re smart, they’ll have fled by now too.” 

The boat drifts eerily beneath the bridge that connects both towers and Sansa feels the chill of ghosts surround her. Many have died within these walls, but it is her brother and mother who haunt her now. She looks back at the towers once they’ve cleared to the other side, and in one of the archways of the crenellations she sees a figure. It seems to be watching her, though her eyes won’t quite focus to see it well. Wind gusts and she recognizes long hair whipping around the figure's face. A woman. Then she is gone, leaving only darkness in her place.

 

Bronn pulls Jaime aside so that the others can’t hear his concern. “I’m not without optimism, but does it strike you as odd that we’ve found no trouble on this river. I know the major forces are a bit occupied at the moment, but there hasn’t been so much as a bandit in our path the whole way. I know, I’ve looked.”

“You almost sound disappointed,” Jaime retorts, but his face reveals his own concern as he looks around them in suspicion. 

Then, as if the conversation worked to summon it, peril finds them.

 

From the south, Jaime sees something small in the distance, but it's getting closer at an unknowable speed. The object grows larger with its approach and soon he recognizes it as the mast of a ship. He turns to command his party to take cover, but only gasps. From the north, another longship has appeared from the dark, and it is almost upon them. 

“Get down!” He screams, pulling his sword. Brienne and Bronn do the same as they take in the encroaching jaws. Both ships, they now see, are flying masts emboldened with a kraken. 

Podrick grabs Sansa without a question and leads her in haste down the steps to the cabin that is cradling a sleeping Robin Arryn. 

“What’s happening?” she cries in a whisper. 

“I think it’s the Ironborn,” Podrick replies in panic. 

Only five Knights of the Vale were able to accompany them on the small, single-masted boat, but they now surround the border of the deck in preparation to defend the lord and lady. Jaime, Brienne, and Bronn rush toward the bow of the ship, as the enemy ahead rushes near. They ready themselves to fight but then pull back in simultaneous astonishment as the longship curves past them without so much as an arrow loosed. They all rush in formation toward the back of the boat and watch as it aims straight for the other member of its own fleet, and the Krakens collide. 

The knights return to the oars, pulling them as fast as they can away from the now flaming river war. 

When they can no longer see the battle, Brienne rushes down to find Sansa. Robin has remained snoring throughout the entire frightening encounter, but Sansa and Pod look equally terrified. Brienne motions for them to join her and they return to the deck.

“What happened?” Sansa demands. She is shocked to find calm, empty waters replacing the certain death that had surrounded them before she was pulled below deck.

“I don’t know,” Brienne replies, still armed and ready. “They were two Greyjoy ships, but the one closing in on us only sailed past, and then they were fighting each other.”

Sansa gasps and runs to the stern, but she can’t see anything in the darkness. “Theon,” she breathes to herself. 

 

***

 

Tormund is lost in fascination somewhere, exploring the lantern-lit castle filled with twisting corridors and bowing towers that would disorient any stranger from finding the same room twice. 

Jon pulls in another draft of ale, hoping to clean his throat, but the taste of swamp remains. He listens as Howland Reed stands over the map that rests between him and his father’s old friend, explaining where the marsh’s illusive paths close in around Moat Cailin. 

“Are you certain the crannogmen are willing to help us?” Jon asks, aware that the bog dwellers are ruled by House Reed. Still, he wants to be sure they know what they will be facing. “It isn’t going to be an easy fight.”

Howland smiles at him again. The man always seems to be smiling. “Our people know the Moat as well as the First Men who raised it and the Children of the Forest who enchanted its defenses long ago. We also know the torment the North suffers under the banners of the Flayed Man. Winter is coming, and there must always be a Stark in Winterfell. Otherwise, we will all be lost to the night.”

 

His words send a knowing chill through Jon and the image of the Night King’s eyes flashes in his mind. 

“Thank you, Lord Reed. I will forever be in your debt.” 

The marsh ruler’s smile falls noticeably then, but Jon hasn’t time to consider why before a small woman enters the room looking distraught. 

“My Lord,” she addresses Howland. “We have received more visitors. They were captured in the Green Fork, a small group of soldiers escorting a young southron lord and…” The woman hesitates, glancing quickly at Jon before adding, “Lady Stark.”


	29. Ache

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa reunite at Greywater Watch

“Sansa?” 

She turns around and there he is, impossibly more beautiful than the last time she'd seen him. Her breath leaves her and she wants to run to him, jump into his arms like she had that day at Castle Black, but she is frozen in her place at the sight of him.

He grows closer, coming up the aisle of the guest hall toward them, but then he stops again. His eyes are so fixed on hers that she can’t see anything else around her. But then they move. He takes in the sight of the rest of them. Robin at her skirt, Brienne at her side, and Jaime Lannister. Sansa sees his jaw clench and when he looks at her again she realizes he is furious.

 

“What are you doing here?”

“My Lord,” Brienne begins but then Jon turns on her.

“You were supposed to keep her safe in the Eyrie.”

Brienne is taken aback. Jon has never used this tone with her before but she understands his concern and attempts to explain. 

“I was, but then Ser Jaime came with news that the Lannister forces were marching on the Vale.”

He turns now to the man who once taunted him at Winterfell. “Oh, Ser Jaime told you that, did he? You mean Ser Jaime _Lannister_?”

“My Lord, if we could explain…” Jaime tries, but Jon's rage makes him falter slightly. Then Jon turns back to Brienne, still not looking at his sister.

“I put my _trust_ in you. I gave you _one_ order and you dismiss it on the word of the Kingslayer!”

“Jon!”

 

Finally, Jon’s hateful face turns back to her and she feels her heart break open. “What?”

Anger overwhelms her. After all she’s done to get back to him, after all she’s suffered being apart from him. “You will _not_ speak to her that way. Brienne has protected me day and night while you have been gone. You left! You don't know what's be happening.” 

“Sansa, I am in the middle of a war!” 

“My war. Or have you forgotten that? You have no idea what dangers we’ve been facing while you are surrounded by _my_ armies.”

This wounds him deeply and she knows it. He looks at her with the true pain of betrayal and she regrets her words, but she won’t repent. Not now. Not after he has ripped away the dream of what seeing him again would be. She needs to get out of here. Sansa turns to the woman who’d escorted them in.

“Where is Lord Reed?” She remembers her manners and takes a breath before adding sweetly, “I’d like to thank him for allowing us shelter, and then I’d like to get Lord Arryn to bed. It has been a long journey and we are all very tired.”

 

“Lady Sansa,” Howland addresses. He enters the hall as if he’d been waiting just outside for the family reunion-turned-squabble to subside. But when he sees her, there is no evidence of discomfort or concern, only a warm smile.

“It is wonderful to meet you my Lord,” she returns the smile, fully armored in courtesies like the battle-worn soldier she is. “My father always spoke so highly of House Reed, and you especially.”

“Thank you, my Lady. I only wish we were meeting under more peaceful circumstances. May I escort you to your chamber? Greywater Watch is beautiful, but terribly disorienting to find your way around if you don’t have the lay of it.”

“That would be wonderful, thank you.” Sansa turns back to the silent group then, but only looks at Robin. “Lord Arryn, shall we go to bed my darling?” 

Sweetrobin runs to her and the three of them exit together.

 

Jon is left helplessly alone with Sansa’s companions. However, Brienne pushes through to inform the young man of what he must know.

“Jon,” she addresses informally. He looks at her then, and he recognizes her demeanor for what it is – sincerity. “I understand you are concerned, but I must beg your ear for a moment. Much has happened that we need to discuss.”

Jon sighs, feeling terrible. He isn’t sure what came over him, but seeing her again had been a battle he’d not planned through. 

“I’m sorry,” he confesses. 

“It’s quite alright,” she deflects. “Ser Jaime has abandoned the Queen and his armies. He rode to the Vale to warn us of their arrival and we thought it best to abandon the castle before they came. I suggested taking Lady Sansa to another safe location, but it was ultimately decided that she would be safest back with you.”

“Decided? You mean Sansa insisted.” He isn’t cruel, only knowing and Brienne glances down in agreement.

“My lord, I understand your position. However, we believe at this time that Sansa needs to be in the North. Cersei is far more powerful than we’d known. She has set her armies on Sansa and believes the opportunity to strike will never be as prime as when the majority of her sworn swords are occupied in the North.”

 

Jon looks at her and then at Podrick who seems to be doing whatever he can to avoid being noticed. He’d fade into the moss if he could, Jon thinks. Then he looks back at the entry to the hall, wondering if he should go to her, when the man he doesn’t know catches his attention.

Jon looks at Bronn as if he’d only just appeared. “Who are you?”

“Strictly speaking, I’m nobody of importance. Just a humble servant.”

“And who do you serve?” 

“This is Ser Bronn of the Blackwater,” Jaime contributes. Jon glares at him but Jaime now gathers more of the lion’s courage. “He was Commander of the City Watch while my brother was Hand. He’s in my service now.”

“So, tell me. How am I to know that Cersei didn’t just send her brother. Rather than risk thousands of men trying to breach the towers of the Eyrie, why not just send one to lure her out of it so she can be attacked on the ground?”

“Because she’s still alive,” Jaime bites at last. “If that was the plan, they’d have attacked outside the Bloody Gate. Cersei sure as hell isn’t sending her armies north, not with the conflict raging and certainly not with winter coming. I don’t expect you to trust me. But you don’t have to. She’s here, and she’s safe, and we will be leaving at first light tomorrow. Whatever tower you choose to lock her in next is no longer my concern. But a word of advice, you’ll want to make sure it is somewhere Cersei will never reach her. Because if she does, there is no end to torture Sansa will suffer.”

 

With that, Jaime and Bronn escort themselves out of the hall. Jon looks at Brienne hoping she will say something, but before she can Tormund stumbles into the room chuckling like a child as a strange reptilian creature scurries up his arm and into his beard, then back down his other arm in a loop.

His eyes beam when he sees Brienne, but then he turns more serious with the look on Jon’s face. “What did I miss?”

 

***

 

By the time Sansa decides to leave her room and look for Jon she has it all worked out. She’d cried, and fumed, and even questioned herself, but now she is determined to face him with detached formality and unwavering resolve. The speech has been drafted and revised and she knows her lines well. 

She nods to the small woman who guided her to Jon’s chamber door and waits until she disappears around the corridor before lifting her fist to knock. 

But just before making contact with the wood everything leaves her. She feels the intrusion of pain and longing burst from her chest and she doubles over, catching herself with an open palm against the door. _Stop it. Don’t cry!_

In defiance of her rising tears, she harnesses her anger again instead and shoves the door open with all the rage she’s ever known. 

 

Jon is sitting at his desk, gazing regretfully in his cup, when suddenly she is there. He looks up, ready to apologize but the door slams closed behind her and she rounds on him without giving him a chance to speak.

“You had… no right. I…” _shit_ The tears come but she thrusts them off her face with disgust. 

He stands and moves to her but she turns away. “Sansa, I’m sorry.” She glares at him as if he’d just spit at her. 

“Do you have any idea what I’ve been going through. Do you even care?” Sansa pulls her arms around herself as a shield now.

“I know, Brienne told me about Cersei and the Greyjoy-” 

“I’m not talking about that, Jon!”

He looks at her in confusion but she narrows her eyes into his until he gets it. His face falling tells her when he has. He sits then, on the edge of his bed not able to look at her.

“I needed to protect you. To keep you safe,” he says softly.

She scoffs. “Well, if you say so.” He looks at her defensively, but she continues. “You knew I wouldn’t be safe there. Nobody’s safe anywhere! You left me there because you…” She stops herself before she says something else she’ll regret, but now Jon turns on her in defiance.

“I what?” 

Sansa tries to turn away but he follows her, stepping in front of her with command. “Sansa, I what?” he repeats more forcefully. “Say it.”

She lifts her chin at the ready and strikes. “You left me because you _want_ me and you’re afraid you won’t be able to stop yourself.”

 

He takes a step back, hit. But she’s drawn blood and has to finish it so she presses forward. “Tell me you don’t think about me, about kissing me, and touching me.” 

He isn’t looking at her anymore but she will make him. Sansa moves closer to him and his eyebrows pull together in anger. 

“Do you, Jon?” She is taunting him now. “While you tell yourself you are off fighting some valiant war, do you think about me? Does it make you _hard_? Does it drive you insane, night after night after fucking night, aching with the images of what we did?”

“Enough!” He advances back now. “Is that what you want to hear? That I’m weak, that I’m a coward who can’t face his own hateful sins? Will that satisfy you?”

“I want you to tell me the truth!” All of her rage falls away and he can see that she is truly in pain. “I want you to tell me that you need me, and that your skin still burns with the thought of mine.”

Her tears fall with indignity now as her face contorts with the ugly desperation she confesses. “I want you to tell me that half of your heart was ripped away when you left me, like mine was.” She closes her eyes and sobs, holding her stomach and falling forward with defeat. But then she is in his arms, he’s caught her and knows he will never let her go again.

Jon pulls her close and, at last, he can feel her again. He can smell her. Her breath is in his ear and her heart beats against his. He runs his hand down her shaking back and whispers apologies with his familiar touch. They stay like that until she has calmed and the tears have subsided. 

 

Finally, she pulls herself back and he looks at her kindly. Her eyes are swollen and her face is red with strain. “You’re a mess,” he laughs, pushing away some of the hair that has clung to her wet cheeks. She laughs too and turns away embarrassed, cleaning herself on her sleeve. But he pulls her back, holding her face in his hands and brushes his thumb gently against her skin. “I'm sorry, Sansa. I promise, I will never leave you again.”

She fears she might start to cry again, but before she can his lips press into hers. Her hands come up to meet his around her face and she clings for him to not let go. He does, though. Parting from her, he leans back and just stares at her. One hand falls to her shoulder and he looks down as if to prepare himself for something she can’t handle. 

“Please,” she begs shaking her head. 

His eyes tell her everything in his heart and she hears it. He wants her, he loves her, but taking her would cost them everything. Their position in the North, the protection of all who follow them, and the last of his honor. It would bring shame on their house, and if a bastard were born he’d never forgive himself. They would be fighting this war forever. 

 

Jon doesn’t know what to do. He can’t face hurting her again but what kind of coward would allow her the promise of what could never be. So, he just tells her the truth. 

“I can’t lay with you.”

“Then don’t,” she whispers. Sansa takes his hand from her shoulder and presses her warm lips against his palm before looking at him again. The heat in her face sparks him and then she ignites the blaze as she places his hand on her breast and says, “Just touch me.”

Jon’s lips fall open for a moment but then they are on hers again. Pushing her roughly against the mossy wall, he captures her mouth with all of the want he’d built during their time apart. His hand on her neck pulls her closer as if hoping to chain her against him forever. The hand on her breast clutches her in a careless grip of blind madness, but then he softens his touch. 

He relaxes his lips enough to allow her mouth to part for his aching tongue and when it meets hers she sighs in relief. At last, she can breathe again. Their mouths move together in a sweet caress and Jon cradles her breast in his hand, lifting its weight in his palm. His thumbs glides over the edge her dress and meets the swell of her bare skin that pushes against him with her heavy breath. 

 

Sansa brushes his groping hand with her fingers in approval and then she moves her hand below his to the front of her dress. He pulls back from her, taking his lips and hands away as he watches her untie the bow that holds the wrapped linen together. Sansa keeps her eyes focused on his longing face as she opens the gown for him, revealing her pale pink bodice and underskirt. 

Jon seems frozen in the sight of her. He stares so long that Sansa begins to blush with embarrassment, but then his eyes pull up to hers again. “Sansa,” he pleads and then wraps both hands around her face again. He brings his lips back hers and he presses his rough, leather-bound chest to hers as if trying to cover her up again. To protect the soft silk of her body from what he wants to do to it. But he knows his need will defeat him. 

Slowly, he moves his lips to her throat and she moans his name as he’d hoped she would. His hands fall from her face to where her dress stays draped on her shoulders. Dipping them under the fabric he presses his fingers into her skin and strokes them down her arms, allowing the dress to fall away with the motion. When he reaches her hands, he holds them in his and looks at her again. 

He wants to ask her if she’s sure, to beg her to stop him if it’s too much. But the only words he finds are, “I love you.” 

Sansa’s face trembles and she brings her arms around him as he kisses her again. Her fingers travel up the back of his neck and through his silky black curls as her tongue begins to overpower his own with desire. 

 

Jon’s hands close around her hips, holding her tight against aching hardness. She rocks against him and he allows one hand to fall behind her, gripping her rounded form and using the hold to bring her closer. His other hand returns to the breast that surges now against the undergarment. The warm soft skin calls his attention and he breaks their kiss to look down at her body. 

With a concentrated gaze, he brings both hands up and touches her softly, stroking his fingers down her chest until they fall into place. Covering her flesh with both palms he presses softly against her like a boy allowed his first glimpse at such pleasure. Then, the man reemerges and he curls the tips of his fingers beneath the bodice and pulls it down, spilling her free completely. 

He grips both her breasts in a desperate hold, lifting them together, and then pushes his face against them. His brings one of her tight nipples into his wet starving mouth before devouring the other in turn. Sansa moans again, holding him to her chest by the clench of her hands in his hair. She burns against his touch and feels herself losing control.

 

When his mouth finally frees its captives, he travels back up to her neck. She lowers her arms to her side and feels the rush of blood pulse down her body with a deep pain that threatens her sanity. She grips him by the ass as he’d done to her and pulls him against her in need. The memory of her loneliness in the Vale, her constant unsatisfied suffering, forces her to beg him now. 

“Please, Jon.” She pushes against him again. “Please, it aches.” 

Jon gathers himself into a little more consciousness and finds her eyes again. “Am I hurting you?”

“No,” she tries, but she can’t find the way to explain. 

His eyes stay on her with questioning but then he feels the hand holding his ass moving around his hip. Before he can know what is happening, her hand closes around the hard front of his breeches and she rubs him against her core, opening her legs slightly. 

 

Jon grabs her by the wrist and shoves her hand against the wall. He stares at her, terrified and ready to end it, but then she bites her lip in agony, looking as if she may start to cry again.

“I can’t take it anymore,” she begs. “All day and all night, I just ache and it won’t end. I feel like I’m going mad, Jon. Like there is something wrong with me. Just make it stop. Please.”

He pulls back a little further, still holding her hand in restraint. He doesn’t understand but when he looks down at her body he sees. She is shifting her thighs together beneath her skirt and a thought creeps into his mind. _Has she never…_

Jon looks back at her face, still coming into his awareness, but the full sight of her then pulls him apart. Her hand gripped in his, her flushed breasts, her hips shifting against the air, and her face pained with need. Jon frees her arm and she falls against his chest, he holds her in his arms gently and then whispers seriously, “Sansa, do you trust me?” 

She nods against his shoulder and then feels her skirt begin move. Sansa leans back against the wall again and looks down to see what he’s doing. Jon pulls the silky material up, bunching it in his hands little by little. He watches her face for any hesitation but she only stares as he works it higher. Just before he exposes her fully, he moves one hand between her legs and presses it against her warm center. 

 

Sansa’s hands hold his shoulders firmly so that she won’t collapse. The feel of his gentle hand against her is something she has never experienced before. The heat in her surges and she pushes herself closer against his touch. Then she feels him begin to move, petting her softly in a rhythm that meets her own. Her breath quickens as he moves and she closes her eyes with the intensity. 

Jon takes his time, savoring every twitch of her face as the heat in his hand grows wetter. No urgency or desire for his own release occurs to him as he watches the fascinating picture unfold before him. He feels her hips begin to push with greater force and it tells him she needs more. Then carefully, he reaches further down her soft curls until his fingers meet skin. 

Her thighs close around his wrist and he waits, smiling a little until she relaxes again. Then he pulls back slightly, curving two fingers between her folds, gliding them back up until he meets her hidden tilt. When he presses against it she cries out so hard that he pushes his other hand over her mouth to quiet her. He hadn’t meant to, but keeps it there as she continues her muffled screams. Finally, he pushes away from it again, moving his fingers back down to her pool. 

 

“Sansa, look it me.” 

 

She opens her eyes and he removes his hand from her mouth, wrapping it around her waist. Then their eyes watch each other intensely as he enters her body. Her knees start to buckle beneath her but he holds her up with his strong grip. Jon falls into a trance watching her mouth open in a silent song as he moves inside her.

Sansa digs her nails into the rough leather of his jerkin and finds her body coursing in a way she has never known. She rocks on him, meeting his movements in a rhythm she isn’t controlling. It feels as if there is something building, as if she will be pulled higher and higher until she leaves this realm completely. Then the pleasure hits in a hard shock of sensation and she drops her hand down to grab his wrist. 

Jon stills with her hand around him, his fingers stretched as far inside her as he can reach. She starts to quake and he watches as her eyes can no longer stay open. Her head falls back as her breath pushes out in short, tight bursts. Then she releases, bearing down on him as her hot pool gushes around his fingers and flows down into his palm. 

 

When she lets go of his wrist Jon pulls her into his arms, kissing her shoulder softly and says, “I missed you so much.” 

“Jon,” she whimpers into his ear. 

“Yes, my love.”

“I need to sit down.” 

 

He laughs a little and lowers himself to pick up her dress. She wraps it around her before following him to the chairs near the fire. But instead of sitting there, she lowers herself to the soft fur on the floor and he joins her. 

She rests against him as he wraps his strong arms around her gently and they sit quietly together, watching the fire. When he realizes she’s fallen asleep he shifts to the side, laying them down together, and finds peace in the safety of having her with him again.


	30. Day

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The next day at Greywater Watch.

Jon wakes in the night to find a low fire and his hand resting on fur. His heart jerks, but when he turns he sees her and relaxes again at the sight.

Sansa sits in a chair holding his leather jerkin, along with a needle and thread. He looks down at his tunic, not remembering having removed the vest, and then goes to her on his knees.

“I seem to have been raided in the night.” Jon smirks, placing a kiss on her knee. His hand moves under the hem of her dress and he softly strokes her calf. 

“You sleep like the dead,” she replies, but then looks at him with sudden regret at her choice of words. He smiles gently though and gives her leg a reassuring squeeze.

“What are you doing?”

“Mending the lining in this old thing. Really, Jon. What _have_ you been getting up to in it?” She turns it to display the repairs on its woolen interior with a look of disapproval. 

“My apologies. I’ve never been very good at taking proper care of my things.” Jon moves his hand higher and starts to massage circles behind her knee. Sansa sighs in pleasure and he loves it.

“And what are you doing?” She asks, her voice raising pitch as his hand now shifts to her thigh. 

“Nothing,” he claims, sinisterly. Jon feels her legs twitch and he presses harder.

“It doesn’t feel like nothing.” 

“I want to watch you come again,” he confesses, his voice low and hard. 

Sansa seems to be getting distracted from her task as the jerkin starts to slip off her lap. She closes her eyes and asks, “Come... mmm... come where?” 

Jon laughs a little and her eyes flutter open again. She doesn’t understand what is so funny, so he tries to explain. “It means... well, what happened before, when you _released_.”

“Oh…” He’s nearly met her sex and she opens her legs a little more, dropping the jerkin fully to the floor and the needle too. Jon lifts himself up and kisses her while his hand teases beneath her skirt. 

“And what about you?” she asks when his mouth travels behind her ear. “Don’t you want to… come?”

Jon laughs again against her neck, turned on by her use of the word. “Almost constantly, my lady.” 

Sansa pulls her hand through his hair and says, “Sounds frustrating. What do you usually do? Go to brothels?” 

He looks at her then and says sincerely, “No.” He kisses her again and refocuses on his task adding, “I just take care of it myself, usually. When I get the chance.” 

His fingers slip between her folds now and she starts to push against him with need. “What… hmm… what do you mean?” 

Jon’s hand stills for a moment and then he pulls it away from her. She looks up at him like she’d been shaken from a sweet dream, but he just smiles and takes one of her hands in his. Sansa watches, mesmerized, as he kisses the top of her hand as if greeting a queen. Then he puts two of her fingers into his mouth. She inhales deeply at the sensation of his tongue swirling around them and before he pulls them free again. 

Sansa’s heart beats hard as he pulls her skirt higher so that she is fully exposed to him. His cock surges at the sight of her amber curls and he places the fingers he’d moistened onto her body, where his had been. Then, placing his hand atop hers, he shows her, moving them together in a slow caress. She might have been embarrassed, if it didn’t feel so wonderful. Then his hand leaves her and he sits back on his heels to watch.

She starts to pull her hand away but he urges, “Don’t stop. I want to see you,” so she continues to give herself pleasure. It excites her to have him looking at her with such intensity, but she still feels a little shy. 

“Will… will you show me how you do it?” 

His eyes move from her center to her face, unsure. "I don't think I should.”

“Please?” she asks innocently, but her movements deepen and he suspects it is for his benefit. “I want to see you, too.” 

He grunts, as if to scold her tactics, but then she presses into herself and he’s defeated. Lifting up straight onto his knees, Jon begins to open his breeches but her hand stills as she sits up a little with curiosity. Then he tells her again, “I said don’t stop.”

Pulling out his cock, Jon holds it steady in his hand letting her look, but he won’t start until she has obeyed. When her hand begins to move again, Jon brushes his tongue across his palm, then rubs it on his tip in a circle before pulling himself through his fist. 

“Gods your beautiful,” he growls as he begins to slide his hand up and down in a slow, practiced stroke. 

“So are you,” she replies. He can see that she is truly finding her pace now and it makes him stiffen even more. Sansa pulls her skirt higher around her waist, allowing her to reach a better depth, and Jon is fascinated with the view. 

“Does it feel good?” he asks breathlessly.

She licks her lips and nods. 

“Tell me,” he commands, moving his hand faster. “Tell me what it feels like.”

“Wet.” He groans in desperation and it pleases her. She starts to move her hips in a circle, pushing her fingers in and out and across her bridge in turns. “Warm,” she continues for him. “It feels like I’m… like I’m… hmmm...”

“Fuck, Sansa.” He is close and doesn’t want to spill before her, but fears he won’t have a choice. Then she starts to move faster. 

"Jon," she calls, as if for help. "Jon, I think..."

“That’s it,” he encourages as her face tightens and her breath quickens. “Let me see it. Come for me sweet girl.” 

Sansa grips the arm of the chair with her free hand and sits up more, squeezing her legs around her wrist. Jon watches in complete ecstacy as her body jerks, and he can’t hold off any longer. He cups his other hand in front of him, letting out a guttural cry that matches hers, as they both fall forward toward each other. 

As they catch their breath their eyes are locked together in a trance, pulling their last surges of pleasure from each other's gaze. When Sansa finally leans back to rest, she lets her skirt fall down over her thighs and Jon smiles. He rises up from the floor, kisses her sweetly, and then moves to the basin to cleanse himself. Looking out the window, he sadly notices the green light starting to signal the arrival of day. 

 

***

 

Sansa is the last to enter the guest hall. Everyone has already started to break their fast, including Jon, but she’d returned to her room to get changed and the guideless journey had proven difficult. She blushes as she approaches the others, wondering if her delight is still obvious on her face, but the worry subsides when she observes the tense debate taking place between soldiers. 

Jon’s voice is the first to reach her, but the thrill it usually brings fades away when she hears the content. “If the Greyjoys are fighting each other, what concern is it of mine?” 

“As I’ve said, you don’t know what all Cersei has planned.”

“Well, I have recently been advised that Cersei wouldn’t send her armies north,” Jon mocks.

“Yes, I said _her_ armies.” Jaime flings as much disdain to the man across from him as he is receiving, but tries to inform him anyway. “You’re a fool if you think–”

“I’ve heard enough. I have more important things to focus on at the moment, and don’t you need to be going?”

“I’d like to hear what he has to say.” 

They all turn and see that Sansa has arrived. Her face is cool now, and she is focused on Jaime Lannister.

“My Lady,” Brienne addresses, moving from her place next to Jon so that Sansa can take her seat. “We weren’t sure you’d be joining us.”

“Yes, being in a strange place always makes it difficult for me to find rest. I must have slept later than I’d intended.” Sansa gives no hint of her night’s discretions as she takes her place next to her brother, who has a more difficult time disguising his blush. “What can you tell us about Cersei’s efforts, Ser Jaime?”

Jaime gives Jon a strange, knowing smirk and then addresses Sansa again. “She has promised to marry Euron Greyjoy once they have defeated all those who stand opposed to her.”

Brienne flinches, but it goes unnoticed by all but Podrick.

“But the North hasn’t opposed her,” Sansa points out. As far as she knows, most Northerners are too concerned with preparing for war and winter to even be considering the terrible woman.

“Not yet, but she has named you a conspirator in the death of King Joffrey.” Jaime turns back to Jon and adds, “And Cersei has named Bolton the rightful ruler of Winterfell and Warden of the North. If you win this war and take back the North, you can either turn Sansa over to meet the Queen's Justice or the North will be in open rebellion. Those are the facts.”

“She named Roose Bolton Warden,” Sansa continues with disgust, “as a reward for murdering our brother while he was King in the North, a free and independent kingdom. We will win our independence again.” 

Sansa is so sure in her declaration that Jon wonders whether she’d been planning this through all along. He determines to argue his contribution as well.

“Winter is coming,” he begins. Jon considers whether to inform the man of the real threat they all face, but decides against it for now. Instead he adds, “And the North remembers. Cersei may have crowned herself Queen, but she doesn’t have the loyalty of her people. They are afraid of her, but will they risk their lives to face a unified North?” 

“And if the North isn’t so unified?”

Jon and Sansa both narrow their wolf eyes on the lion at this, but before any more can be said Howland Reed enters the hall, and all rise to greet him.

“Sit, please.” Howland waves them down with a jolly grin. “Enjoy your meal. I just came to greet my guests and to inform you all that I would like to have a feast tomorrow evening, a proper gathering on your last night in Greywater Watch.” 

He takes a seat near the end of the table where Tormund, Bronn, Podrick and Robin are all fully enthralled by three house guards detailing their unique crannog weaponry. It reminds Jon of how his father would often save a seat next to him at meals to converse with servants or advisers. 

“That sounds delightful, Lord Reed.” Sansa, ever ready with her courtesies, adds, “But I’d hate for you to go to such trouble, as we’ve all just thrust ourselves on your home unexpectedly. Your generosity has been more than we could ask already.”

“Nonsense. We never get the opportunity to feast properly, as no one ever really comes here. It will be a thrill, and a chance for the crannogmen to get to know you all better before the battle.” Howland’s smile saddens a little, but remains true. “Besides, it will allow me to honor my dear friend by hosting his family.”

Sansa smiles sadly as well and nods her approval. 

Jon wants to hold her hand but instead presses her knee gently with his and tells Howland, “It would be _our_ honor, my Lord. Thank you.”

 

***

 

The remainder of the day consists of Sansa and Podrick tending to Sweetrobin, while Jon and Tormund discuss tactics with Howland Reed. Bronn has made himself scarce as well, so with the opportunity to speak alone, Brienne joins Jaime in his chamber as he prepares to leave. 

“I didn’t realize Cersei was betrothed,” she says at last, trying to sound kind.

Jaime glances up from his one-handed attempt at packing, and answers the accusation for what it is. “That’s not why I left.”

“I know,” she hastens. “Still, it must have been difficult for you.”

Jaime sighs then, leaving his task behind to sit by the fire. Then he motions for her to join him and she does. For a moment, he seems to be considering an explanation of some sort but then simply looks at her and smiles softly. “It’s been good to see you.”

Brienne blushes a little with the smile she returns, but then concern inevitably finds her again. “Where will you go now? You’re an enemy of the Crown.”

He lifts an eyebrow in false defiance and says, “Do you doubt me, my Lady? I am a knight with a hand of gold. What harm could possibly come to me? Besides, I have Bronn.” Jaime can’t help but be amused with the conflicting worry and annoyance now warring on her brow. 

“I’m serious. You risked everything to bring Lady Sansa to safety. Swear your sword to her cause and I know that she will persuade Jon to bring you into his trust.”

At this he laughs. “A lion in a den of wolves.”

“You could be of great value to them. Jon may not realize it, but they need to understand what is happening outside of the North.”

Jaime isn’t convinced. “I’ll deny this to my grave, but the boy is right. You can only fight one war at a time.”

Brienne feels compelled to admit that she wants him to stay — because she misses him — but instead decides to share the knowledge that Jon didn’t. “There’s something else. Something you should know about what's coming.” 

Jaime notes the intensity in her tone and leans forward with concentration.


	31. And Night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Later that night, in Greywater Watch.

When Jon returns to his room for the evening Sansa is there, and the sight of her takes his breath away. She is in his bed with the furs pulled up around her body, only her bare arms exposed, and her face is timid, yet determined. 

He moves to her slowly, not understanding how his legs could be working, but when he reaches the edge of the bed he nearly stumbles as she brings the cover away to reveal her naked form to him. Jon drinks in the image of her perfect body laid out before him and thinks he might collapse. Then she reaches out and takes his hand, pulling him to sit next to her on the bed. 

He strokes the side of her lovely face and then lowers his lips to hers, pressing them softly for a lingering moment. When he leans away from her again his eyes and fingers glide along her sweet skin, glowing in the candlelight. “Sansa,” he whispers, before returning his eyes to hers.

She lifts her hand to his chest and runs her delicate touch along the closures of his leather, pulling them open one by one. He finishes the task for her, pulling it off his arms before kissing her again with more force. 

 

With his lips still on hers, she pulls up his tunic and he parts from her only long enough to discard it fully. Then she wraps her arms around him, running her fingers over the hard curve of his back as Jon presses his possessive tongue into her mouth, leaning closer, feeling her warm skin against his.

Sansa moves her hands to his waist, and then slides them down to the front of his breeches to start removing them as well. Jon sits up to assist, but then stops suddenly when he hears her gasp. He searches her face for the cause, but her eyes are fixed on his body and it hits him like a fist to the gut. She’s never seen it before.

He sits back and watches her, waiting, without knowing what to say. He hardly looks himself, if he can help it, but she seems frozen, unable to look away. When he begins to feel as though he should put his shirt back on she touches him, laying her gentle hand over the wound that pierced his heart, and she cries. Soft, aching tears fall silently down her face and he brushes them away with his thumb, cupping his hand under her chin, and then lifts her eyes back to his. 

 

They don’t speak, only tell each other what they feel through the gaze. Then she wraps his hand in hers and kisses it before placing it down on the bed. Jon watches as Sansa shifts herself over a little, keeping her eyes on his. Then, with shaking hands, she reaches up and pulls her long hair away from her back, draping it over her shoulder. He waits as she stills, holding him in her glance a little longer, before her eyes close and she turns to lay on her side, facing away from him.

For a moment, he thinks she might have abandoned him. But then he sees it. Etched across her back, between her shoulder blades is a long, thick shred of scars taking the form of a cross. Jon’s stomach turns with the realization that Ramsay's marked her with the symbol of his banners. And not just once. The wound had been traced over itself so many times Jon wouldn’t be able to count if he wanted to. He covers it with his trembling hands and brings himself down, pressing his tears against her flesh. 

When she faces him again, Jon lays next to her, holding her close, and they stay that way until they've both finish their silent cries and fallen asleep.

 

***

 

The castle is quiet, all his guests having turned in, and Howland reflects in his study. The memory of that day grips him now, as it so often does. The way he'd found him there, holding her cold hand in his, as the quiet cries of new life filled the room. 

_I should have told him. I should have left this cowardly refuge long ago. I should have found the boy at the Wall, and I should have told him. I have failed for so long, but he’s here now, and I’ve been given the chance to make it right. And I will._

 

When he’s made his vow, he finds that sleep might be possible and he leaves to seek his bed. But as he rounds the corridor he hears footsteps approaching and he knows it is her before he sees her. The sound of those steps again in these halls is all he's wanted for years.

“Meera!” he cries, pulling her to him in a desperate cling. 

“Father,” she sobs back against his shoulder. Her mess of dark curls covers his face, obscuring his already blurred sight. So, it isn’t until she pulls back again that he sees the boy behind her. For a single breath he allows a rising spring of hope that it is Jojen, before it crashes back down with the memory of his son’s fate. 

There was never a raven, no report of his death. But Jojen knew when he left that it would be forever, and he had told his father this truth. He’d begged him not to go, but his brave boy looked in his eyes and smiled. Jojen told him what he had seen in the visions, all of it. And when they left Greywater Watch, with a heart broken into a thousand pieces, Howland was proud of his beautiful, heroic son. 

 

“This must be Brandon Stark,” he says, clearing his eyes with his thumb to get a better look at the boy in a wheeled chair. 

“Hello, Lord Reed. I’m glad to meet you.” 

The boy’s voice is strangely still, but when he turns back to Meera she is bursting with exhaustion and despair. He hugs her again, wishing he could have spared her from what she’s been through, and utterly relieved she has made it home to him. 

“Let’s get you two some food,” he urges but then remembers and turns back to Bran with haste. “Your brother and sister are here! I’ll go fetch them at once.”

“No,” Bran states calmly. “I’ll see them in the morning. We should speak tonight, just the three of us. There is much you need to know.”

Howland turns back to Meera for guidance but she drops her gaze down in agreement, and then moves behind Bran, pushing his chair in the direction of the study he’d just left.


	32. The Crow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa reunite with Bran.

Sansa feels his arms around her before her eyes open and it fills her heart again. His chest is pressed to her back, his scars touching hers, as he lightly kisses her shoulder. She squeezes his hand wrapped in hers and smiles as he pulls her closer.

“Sansa,” he whispers softly. “I need to tell you something.”

She turns to look at him but he tries to ease her worries with a gentle stroke of her hair. “It isn’t bad. Well, not exactly.” 

“What?” She sits up a little, unrelieved, and watches with bated breath as he sits up as well.

“I saw Arya.”

Her eyes widen, begging for more.

“She found me on the road, when the armies were camped near the Twins.”

“She _found_ you?” 

“Actually, it was Nymeria that saw me first,” he continues, and she empties her lungs in shock. 

Jon goes on to explain how he’d come to meet their sister again, greeted by a pack of wolves that guided him to her. And then regretfully confesses that he’d let her go again, offering meekly, “She promised she would be back.”

Something occurs to Sansa, like a dream she only now remembers. “I think I saw her, too.”

Jon implores her with his eyes but she is looking into the distance, as she had that night on the river. When her eyes return to him after describing it, he looks as lost as she feels. 

“How did she look?” she asks finally, and then he smiles.

“She looked good. Different, though. She’s grown up so much.” He looks down with the memory of her and then wraps his arm around Sansa and lays back with her resting on his chest. “She’s changed a lot, just like we have I suppose. Only…” he thinks for a moment, then laughs a little and she looks up at him with interest. “I suppose I should let her explain it all to you. I don’t know if I even could. But Clegane was right about her.”

Sansa clenches her brow in concern, and Jon rubs her shoulder. Then his voice darkens with a strange pride. “Arya killed the Freys. She cut Old Walder's throat and then poisoned all of his sons in the same feast hall where they murdered our family.”

“That was _her_?” Sansa can hardly believe it, but when he nods she knows it is true. She stares into the dark again, picturing it, and wishing she’d been there to watch. 

Sansa’s heart fills with a deep longing for her then. She wants to pull her sister into her arms and beg her forgiveness for every childish cruelty she’d ever committed. She wants to tell her how she regrets not keeping her safe, how she blames herself for everything. For Father. 

“Where do you think she went?” 

“She wouldn’t tell me. Only that she needed to find someone she knew, a boy named Gendry she’d met when she escaped from King’s Landing. She was disguised as a boy, heading north with the Night's Watch, and he was her friend. But they lost each other along the way.”

“Wow,” she exclaims, completely astonished. She looks up at him with a look of bewilderment Jon doesn’t understand. “A killer, I can imagine. But Arya, in _love_? Now I’ve heard everything.”

He laughs at this, pulling her closer and kissing the top of her head. If only she knew.

 

***

 

Today they are the first in the guest hall, having arrived together. Sansa softly strokes his knee with discretion under the table and Jon gazes at her with amusement as she tells him of her attempts to train with a sword. But they both have their attention pulled at once as they are summoned from the entryway.

“My Lady, my Lord, there is someone here who’d like to see you.” Howland’s eager grin greets them, then he steps aside to reveal their brother sitting behind him. 

They sprint, Sansa reaching him first, and she pulls him into a tearful embrace. Bran looks at Jon over her shoulder, smiling only slightly, and says, “Hello.”

When she’s released him at last, Jon cradles the back of his brother’s head, looking him over as his breath begins to shorten. Then falls on his knees to hug him close. Sansa is weeping, and looks to Howland for explanation. 

“He arrived late in the night, along with my daughter Meera. You’ll meet her later, as she is resting now, but I’ve instructed the others to take their meals in the great hall this morning so you can have some time together.” With that, he nods kindly and leaves, closing the oak doors behind him.

Jon still holds Bran’s neck and tells him, “Sam told me he’d seen you go beyond the Wall. I thought you were _dead_.”

“I’m not,” he replies plainly. 

Sansa falls on him again and Jon steps back, taking a better look at his little brother, now a man grown. 

“Are you hurt?” she asks, brushing her hand through his short hair before bringing it to his cheek. “How do you feel?”

“Hungry,” he replies and then Sansa leaps up, pushing him to the table where she immediately hands him bread and her untouched plate of eggs. 

Bran takes a few small bites of food as his brother and sister wait, staring at him with identical captivation. Finally, he begins. 

He tells them of leaving Winterfell with Osha and Hodor, and he tells them of Rickon, too. Sansa pulls her hand over her mouth with the tale, wondering if she will ever see their baby brother again.

“He wanted to go beyond the Wall with me, said he had to protect me.” Bran smiles truly for the first time since he left the cave, and his siblings share it. “I told Osha to take him to the Last Hearth. I thought he would be safe there, with the Umbers.”

Jon and Sansa both sink with dread at this news, but then Bran tries to soothe their concern. “She didn’t, though. Instead, she took him to Skagos.”

“The island of cannibals?” Jon gasps in terror. 

“And Unicorns, but he is safe,” Bran promises flatly, and then continues. 

“Meera and her brother Jojen guided me north. Jojen had the sight, visions. They call it greenseeing. He'd had a vision of me and then came to find me, but I’d seen him before, too. In a dream. He explained to me that I'm a warg, and he helped me understand what was happening to me.”

“I don’t know what any of that means,” Sansa states as frankly as Bran. She does, however, notice that Bran is speaking of his friend as in the past. He looks at her then and she sees the hurt in his eyes.

“I do," Jon answers. "I met a warg when I was north of the Wall. It's a person who can see through the eyes of an animal. Arya can do it with Nymeria.” 

“And the rest of the pack, too.” Bran adds. Sansa just stares at her brothers in astonishment. 

“The sight is different. Jojen could see things, that hadn't happened yet.” Jon doesn’t understand but then Bran stares at him deeply. “He saw you, when you were with the wildlings. And then I saw you, too, only not in a vision. We were at Craster’s Keep when you came to kill the mutineers.” 

“Bran,” Jon pleads. “Why didn’t you–”

“I wanted to,” he promises. “But I knew you would stop me and I had to go north. I had to find the tree.”

“What tree?” Jon is lost. He can’t imagine why his brother wouldn’t come to him, to seek protection when they were so close. “I don’t understand. _Why_ would you go up there?”

“To find the Three-eyed Raven.” Jon and Sansa look at each other with blank confusion.

“It’s difficult to explain.”

“Try,” Jon begs. “Please, for me.” 

He reminds himself that Bran is here, now. That’s what matters and all he can do is listen, as he had with Arya, as he had with Sansa. Nothing makes much sense to him anymore, but it is a small price if it means they’ve found their way back together. Suddenly, he finds himself allowing hope for the day to come when he hears Rickon tell of his journey as well. 

“We traveled through the haunted forest until we found the great weirwood tree. But Jojen died before we reached the cave beneath it.” Bran stops for a moment, twitching his face in regret before looking back at Jon. “The dead came.”

He winces at his brother’s words. The knowledge that his poor, crippled brother faced the horrific monsters he once had, only with an army and a Valyrian steel sword, causes Jon to tremble.

“When we entered the cave, I met the Three-eyed Raven, an old man who’d been sitting in the tree for so long that the roots had started to grow up through him. He’d been waiting for me, calling to me in visions ever since I fell from the Broken Tower.” 

Sansa pulls Bran’s hand into hers, unable to go on listening without feeling the reality of him against her pulse. Everything he is saying makes her feel as though she is slipping into a dream, a _nightmare_ , but the touch doesn’t bring her the relief she hopes for. 

Sansa is instantly transported to another world, one that is dark and cold. The scream of a crow fills her ears and she can smell the damp dirt all around her where the twisted roots emerge, climbing up the mossy cave walls. Then she is back with a jolt and Bran is still talking, having released her hand from his.

Jon is fixed on Bran’s story, and neither of the boys seem to have seen her disappear. Sansa is so disoriented that she can’t bring herself to call attention to the strange experience she’d just endured. 

“When the White Walkers and the Army of the Dead came for us, I had to finish it. I wasn’t ready, but there was no time left.”

“Ready for what?” Jon urges, still not noticing his sister’s shock.

“To be him. To learn everything. I became the Three-eyed Raven.” Jon looks at Sansa then for support but notices she is drained of all color. “It means I can see everything,” he continues. “Everything that’s ever happened, to everyone. Everything that’s happening right now.” 

The three of them sit quietly for a moment, each exhausted in different ways. 

“I told you it’s difficult to explain.” 

Bran gives his sister and kind and knowing look, reminding her of the boy she knew back in Winterfell and it helps her come back to herself. But soon it fades again.

“It’s all pieces, fragments. I need to learn to see better.” Then he turns to Jon with a foreboding stare that chills him to the core. “When the Long Night comes again, I need to be ready.”


	33. The Street of Steel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Gendry come together.

The city is covered in black. Winter is coming. But the cloaks are still gold.

 

Fire, water, and steel are the elements that fill the breath of his existence. The armorer, no longer an apprentice, drips a shower of sweat upon the hot anvil as he pulls back to examine the detail of the blade. He hates that he is arming Lannisters, but he’s doing it so, he’ll do it right. 

When Gendry closes shop for the night, he washes the soot from his face and hands so that he can finally eat. The day had left no time for it, but that’s alright, as it means business is steady. He might not have much in this world, but this place is his. He could probably charge twice as much as the other smiths in the city, if he wanted to, but he likes to keep a low profile. 

Gendry has made himself comfortable with both safety and shelter through his trade, but only just. The small room behind the shop isn’t enough for a wife or children, but he isn’t putting roots down here. He's just building armor. 

 

He reaches the door to his room, but just before going in he notices something out of the corner of his eye. This had happened a few times today, only each time he’d looked there was nothing there. When he turns to look this time, though, there is. 

Gendry starts when he sees a figure standing in the shadows, small and all in black. “Who are you?” he demands angrily. “How did you get in here?” When the stranger doesn’t answer he reaches for the closest weapon, but then she moves into the light.

 

He wouldn’t know her, not in a million years. Her doublet and trousers are a fine leather, fitting just loose enough to hug the curves that weren’t there before. Her hair is long and sleek now, too. Nothing like when they traveled together as gutter rats. 

But those are her eyes, unquestionably. He’s never known any others. 

“Arya.” 

 

She’d been watching him all day, right under his nose with the help of no other face, no altered body, no one. It was easy. Although, she had almost been caught a few times, as the sight of him had made her a little heavier on her feet. But she wanted to wait until she could have him alone. 

“Hello, Gendry.” She smiles and moves closer to him, properly taking in the beauty of his blue eyes and hard face once more. It had been so long.

 

They can both feel it immediately, as their eyes can’t find a way apart. It would be impossible not to feel it. Impossible to pretend. In fact, it is already happening, but Arya is faster. Jumping into his thick arms, she wraps all four limbs around him and crashes herself down onto her first ever kiss. 

Gendry stumbles back with the collision of her body onto his, and her tongue now in his mouth, but holds onto her legs for dear life. They land against the door of the hut and the force dislodges their lips at last. Gendry tries to catch his breath, to come back to reality, but the sight of her face so close now makes him fear that his heart might just stop.

“You’re fucking stunning,” he informs her crucially. 

“And you’re fucking dirty,” she replies before sinking her teeth into his neck, indulging in the sweat and steel on his skin. Then she dismounts herself onto the ground again with a light, silent step. 

 

Gendry doesn’t say anything else, only follows her as she opens the door and leads him to his own bed. Then he watches her from across the tiny room as she starts to open the clasps of her jacket. When he can finally move of his own accord again he reaches her in a single stride and takes over the task, stripping her down until she stands only in her smallclothes, a long shirt that hangs just low enough on her thighs to count. He steps back then, and watches as she pulls it over her head, showing him her solid body. 

She lets him look until it makes her blush. She enjoys it, though. Feeling something new. 

Then finally she is on him again, and he is on her. His hands reach for every inch of her body as she holds him in the grip of her mouth. Arya fights blind, removing his clothes without breaking the kiss. Then she reaches down and wraps her fist around him like a hilt, handling the hard flesh on instinct, having had no proper training.

 

Gendry advances, moving her back until they fall together onto his mattress. Taking his lips from hers at last, he stares at her beautiful face beneath him. Then with a fierce hunger he plunges himself down again onto her tits, feasting on her body as she wails. Arya pulls her hand from him then, reaching up behind her to find something she can hold on to. 

When he lifts himself up again, Gendry is planked between her legs, his cock pulsing at her gate. But before he can beg leave, Arya grabs him by the back of his neck and commands him with an urgent nod. His arms falter around her for a moment but he finds his strength again and presses into her. 

Arya releases a severe cry as his forehead lands on hers for support. She is so tight that Gendry feels locked inside of her, and he aches to be her captive forever. “Did I hurt you,” he exhales into her face, his eyes shut against the burning heat now consuming him. 

“Yes,” she moans as her mouth reaches up to find his again. 

 

Gendry drives his tongue into her mouth as his body continues to lung forward with inexorable need. He lowers a strong hand onto her, pressing firmly against her ribs before trailing under her to clutch the firm flesh of her ass. Then he slides his hold further, pulling her leg up around him, his fingers gripping into her thigh as he pumps. 

Arya can’t feel where her body ends and his begins, having no memory of ever existing as anything but one with him. She pushes her heel into his back, pulling him deeper, needing him to embody her completely. Then she thrusts herself up against him, meeting him faster and harder, as she starts to split apart into a thousand pieces of light. 

She howls as her body clenches down on him from her core, and he tries desperately to hold on but can't. Ripping her leg violently away from him, Gendry holds her body down on the bed with a hard force. He makes his escape, barely getting himself out in time, before releasing a current of strong seed onto her trembling stomach. Then he falls, collapsing into a pile of heaving rubble, and taking her down with him as he goes. 

 

When he finally frees her from his weight to roll onto his back, she moves with him, laying her head on his chest as their sweat starts to cool in the night. He holds her close, as he always did, and they listen to the pounding rhythm of their hearts racing against each other. 

“So,” Gendry chokes out casually, still trying to find his breath. “Lovely to see you again.”

Arya laughs, pushing against him with the leg she’s draped lazily over his. 

“Careful,” he warns, grabbing her knee before it can collide with his balls. Then he keeps his hand on her, stroking her leg, as he kisses her tousled hair. 

“I’m glad you’re not dead,” she tells him quietly. The carved muscle underneath her flinches at her words and she soothes her hand up to his neck. He pulls her closer. 

“I should have gone with you when you asked. To Winterfell.” 

Arya knows, in the end, that he’d made a better choice. If he’d have gone with her, they might both be dead now, killed at the Red Wedding with everyone else. But she won’t allow that to invade this moment now. 

 

“I’m finally going home,” she reveals. “My brother and sister have started a war against the Boltons and we’re going to take it back.” Arya holds her body as still as she knows how, preparing for him to deny her again, but before she can even ask he does it for her.

“You came to get me,” he acknowledges. “You want me to come with you.”

“You don’t –”

“I’m ready. Let’s go.” 

Arya looks up at him, questioning whether he is teasing her again, but he just stares at her with all the hard sincerity of his form. She lifts herself then, straddling his waist and bringing his lips to hers again, only softer this time. 

“I missed you,” she confesses when she sits back to look at his gorgeous face. 

 

Gendry’s hands close around her ass from both sides, kneading his fingers into her gently. “What happened to you?” he finally asks. She isn’t sure she’s ready for this part.

“The Hound took me when I escaped the Brotherhood,” she begins, but then his touch halts so she quickly adds, “Then when I escaped him, I went to Braavos.” 

“Did you find Jaqen H’ghar?” Arya only nods, but then he squeezes her skin, urging, “And?”

“And now I can do what he does.”

“You can kill anyone. Anywhere.” She nods again. “And the face thing, too?”

She watches as he considers this truth, then says, “All I need is a name.” His mouth falls open a little at her intense promise, but then she smiles, shifting herself slightly down his body. “Are you scared?”

“Terrified,” he admits, his hands tightening with arousal. He lifts his body up, taking her lips, and Arya wraps herself in the heat of his arms again. 

 

“S’pose it’ll be handy,” he notes when his mouth moves to her neck.

“What’s that?” She finds it hard to focus with the feel of his lips against her throat. And his hands groping her body. And his cock reviving under her cunt. 

“I reckon I could use a skilled assassin on my side when I face the justice of House Stark. You wouldn’t let your brother kill me for defiling you like an animal, would you?” 

Arya laughs at him. “Trust me, he’s not the one you need to worry about.” Gendry gives her a curious glance and she smirks, picturing it. “I can’t wait to see the look on my lady sister’s face when she finds out I’ve lost my innocence to a low-born bastard on the Street of Steel.”

This time, he laughs at her. “Arya Stark, you are a lot of things, but somehow I doubt innocent has ever been one of them.” 

 

He kisses her as a distraction, and then wraps his hand around her waist, flipping her underneath him again in one swift motion. “Besides, it turns out I’m not quite so low-born after all.” The hand still holding her hostage in his strength, digs into her side causing her to jerk with the tickle.

“What do you mean?” she asks, trying to wrestle herself free.

He releases her at last, then lowers himself beside her and traces her skin with careful fingers as if polishing a sword. “The Red Woman told me about my father. That’s why she needed me, because of who he was.” His eyes study her body, but she tries to read what’s behind them anyway. 

“Who was he?” she asks, accidentally impatient.

He takes a breath, holding it for a moment and then says, “Robert Baratheon?” He lifts his eyes to her again with a wary expression, and she is floored.

“Seven hells.” Then she realizes, “Is that why the Gold Cloaks were looking for you?” 

Gendry shrugs, “I assume so, yeh. Joffrey ordered all of King Robert’s bastards to be killed. Even the babes.”

“Your brothers and sisters,” Arya whispers, regretting again that someone else had gotten to Joffrey first.

 

“Let’s talk about something else,” Gendry bids, clenching his jaw as he looks down at her hand now in his. 

Arya follows his glance, examining the way they fit together so perfectly. “The attack on Winterfell isn’t going to be easy,” she informs him. “Ramsay Bolton is a monster, but we are going to defeat him, painfully.” 

Gendry remembers the look on her face when he had to restrain her so she wouldn’t cut the Hound’s throat. He thought he’d never see a more murderous hatred than that, but he was wrong. He rubs her arm, trying to offer some kind of comfort. “I’ll be there to help. I’m not a soldier, but I’m a fighter, and I’ll do whatever you need.”

She smiles at him again and Gendry feels instantly relieved. Then Arya looks toward the door they’d forgotten to close and gestures to his inventory. “You might want to bring one of those swords.”

Gendry leaves her then, standing from the bed, and crosses the small space of his room as he says, “I don’t know much about swinging swords.” Then he lifts something heavy from a rack behind the door and pulls out a massive, spiked war hammer, crafted by his own skilled artistry. “But this, this I know.”

 

Arya sits up in awe, taking in the full breadth of his godly visage. Her eyes roam from the perfect sculpt of his arms down to the thick shaft swaying between his thighs, then back up to his hard eyes, revering the weapon held with the hands that forged it. She is truly in love.

“I’ve been getting ready,” he says looking back to Arya. She blushes, caught in her worshiping gaze, then he adds with complete certainty, “I never knew what for, but I’ve always known I’d know it when it comes. And now here you are.”

“Gendry,” she beckons, with a tone so severe that it causes him to narrow his brow in concern. “Get back in this bed. _Now_.” 

He swallows, laying down his hammer and stalks back to her at once, growling, “As m’lady commands.”


	34. Love and War

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon meets Meera Reed.

The preparations for the feast are underway in the great hall, while Jon, Howland, and Tormund meet in the Lord's chamber for one last run of the plans. 

“Tormund will leave with the crannogmen after the feast and go north,” Jon reviews. “Then I will leave at first light.” He feels confident about their plans, Jon only wishes he knew what was happening with his armies. Ravens don’t come to Greywater Watch, but no matter. He'll be back with them soon and there was no use in worried speculation now. 

“I can’t wait to see those Bolton fuckers piss themselves when they see us coming,” Tormund brags. He’s really taken a liking to the crannogmen, having been preparing to fight with them by caking as much swamp on himself as possible. Every hour since they’d arrived, he’d applied more mud and moss, like a lady’s beauty regimen. They had even given him his very own frog spear, which he carries everywhere with pride. A true romance, indeed. 

Jon continues, “Lord Stark and Lord Arryn will remain at Greywater Watch under strict guard until Moat Cailin and White Harbor are secured, and then they will travel north as well.”

“What about your sister?” Tormund asks, finally. They’d all avoided it till now and Jon was grateful for that, as he had gone back and forth and blank so many times on what to do about her that he hadn’t had the answer to give. However, the wildling’s blunt question now suddenly forces a blunt answer to emerge.

“Sansa stays with me.”

 

Tormund nods and exits the room, having all the intel he needs. He is eager to get back to training and Jon sees him give a little spin to his frog spear just before disappearing out of sight. He smiles, and then turns back to Howland, who actually isn’t.

“Jon, I wondered if I might speak with you this evening before the feast.”

“Of course, is everything alright?”

“Yes, yes. It’s nothing to do with the fight. Only, I wanted to give you something.”

Jon nods, wondering what it could be, and why he doesn’t just give it to him now. Then there is a knock on the door revealing Lord Reed has another appointment. 

 

Jaime Lannister enters the room and Jon stands, facing him. “I thought you were leaving,” Jon says, but he isn’t nasty about it. Only curious. 

“Lord Reed asked if I would stay to inform him of the conflicts arising in the South so that we could work to secure the Neck.”

Jon realizes then that he is speaking to a seasoned and skills army commander and regrets the childish way he’d originally treated with the man. He nods and then adds, “I never thanked you, Ser Jaime, for bringing my sister to safety.”

“No, you didn’t.” Jaime smirks and then walks around him before more can be said, taking the seat Jon had just left. 

Jon turns to say something but Howland just nods kindly at him so he takes his leave.

 

***

 

On the way back to his room, Jon gets lost. He’d been trying not to get in the way of the small men and women rushing about to hang garlands of lanterns and now he has no idea where he is.

This area of the castle is quiet, with no staff to trip over, but nothing familiar either. The halls are dim, with only a few lanterns lit, but that still gives Jon hope that someone might be around who could direct him. As he rounds one path he sees a small light coming from an open room so he approaches.

Peering through the branched archway, Jon sees a small young woman he doesn't recognize. She's dressed in fine green leather, sitting facing her hearth, and he realizes this must be Howland’s daughter, Meera. 

When she doesn’t turn around, he wonders if she might be sleeping. She’d been on such a long journey with his brother, one neither of them should have survived, and she likely still has a long recovery ahead. Jon decides he will find his own way back, quietly backing away from the room, when she speaks. 

 

“You can come in, if you like.” Her voice would be enchanting, like some woodland creature from a fairy tale, were it not so sad. 

“I didn’t mean to disturb you, my lady. I was just lost.”

She turns to look at him then and smiles slightly as if to reassure him of the invitation so Jon decides to join her, just for a moment, to properly thank her for all she’s done. He sits across from her on a similarly high-backed chair, carved from oak with lizard-lions intricately etched into the wood.

Jon watches as she turns her stare back into the fire and he thinks he’s never felt such agony for a stranger before. “I wanted to thank you,” he says in a low voice, painfully aware of the inadequacy of his words. 

He sees her smile slightly in acknowledgement but then her face falls into hard sadness once more. Jon tries to find the words, any words, that might help this poor girl. He owes her everything, after all, for protecting his brother all these years, but he fails. 

“He’s different.” Her voice is quiet and, for a moment, Jon wonders if she is even talking to him. Then she looks up with understanding eyes and he realizes she is trying to comfort him, despite all she’s already done. “I know it must be strange to see him like that.”

“I’m just glad he’s back,” Jon offers sincerely. Then her face twitches with pity for him and she turns back to the fire. Suddenly, Jon is filled with more awareness, replaying the conversation with his brother in his mind again. 

 

“What happened to him?” Another inadequacy. Jon isn’t sure more discussion of whatever this Raven thing is will help him understand any better, and he shouldn’t be bothering her with such questions. He starts to retract the broad intrusion but then she sinks him with her words.

“He died.” Ice fills his veins and then she glances at him with slight embarrassment. “Not like you did. His heart never stopped.”

Jon can see that she fears she has revealed an invasion on her part, but he isn’t offended, only surprised. “How did you know?”

“Bran saw it. The visions still take their toll on him sometimes, but back then he was…” Meera doesn’t finish her thought. Jon sees her struggling so he doesn’t push. “He screamed your name for hours that night, until he had no voice left, and all I could do was watch.”

“I’m sorry,” he offers truly. 

Then she lets out a resentful sniff of regret. “Don’t be. I’d give anything to hear that again, to see something real in his face. Even if it’s pain. Anything but…” Again, she doesn’t finish the thought, but Jon senses some anger in her voice now. “Besides, you came back to life. Brandon Stark never will.” 

Devastating comprehension takes hold, now. Whatever happened to Bran, it had changed him in a way that Jon didn’t want to see before. They’ve all been through a lot, but Arya, Sansa, and even Jon who'd lost his life, they are all still here. He doesn’t want to believe it, but the pain rises up anyway with the truth of it. He has lost another brother.

 

“You love him?” Jon isn’t sure what makes him ask. She doesn’t answer though, only leans forward to rest her elbows on her knees and lowers her head, as if in prayer. Jon decides then, from whatever cruel madness, to shift to another of this stranger's wounds. “Bran told me about your brother, Jojen. I’m sorry.” 

With this she trembles, her face pulling down in a jerk. Jon needs to find a way to get a handle of himself and leave this poor girl alone. He doesn’t understand what has possessed him to continue torturing her with such painful queries, when she so clearly needs to rest. But then his cursed tongue just strikes again, unbound. 

“How did you two ever make it out? I’ve seen the army of the dead, and the White Walkers. I don’t understand how you survived.”

Meera leans back in her chair all the way, stretching her weary body upright as she breathes in deeply, and then she stands. It's as though the moisture of the marsh air has filled her lungs with a renewed vitality, as Jon can finally see the full measure of her — a warrior. 

 

She reaches for something on the mantle and when she lifts it Jon recognizes the object as dragonglass. “I fought them with the Children.”

“What children?”

“The Children of the Forest."

Jon's jaw drops. "I thought they were all gone."

"They are, now." Her voice is disturbingly sure. "The Children helped us. They tried to help Jojen but it was too late. I failed him, all of them.” She shakes her head a little but then continues. “They cast protections on the cave so that the dead couldn’t get in. But then something happened in one of Bran’s visions. The Three-eyed Raven said the Night King touched him, so the protections were broken. And then they came."

Jon watches the flames as she describes killing a White Walker, the way it shattered apart like a sheet of thin ice when she speared it with dragonglass. He’d seen it too. Then, the memory of the bodies, a tidal wave of death coming for him over that cliff, warps into the image she paints of the horrific creatures flooding into the cave beneath tree. 

“Hodor and I ran with Bran as fast as we could, and the Children all died holding them off. Even Summer sacrificed himself so that we could reach the entrance.” Jon aches with this. His brother’s wolf. Another of the pack gone. “But then…” 

Jon watches her closely now as she starts to cry. _What, gods?_ He wasn’t sure how much worse this could get.

“We got him through the door and Hodor pushed it closed behind us, but there were too many of them. I pulled Bran away on the sled and I... I told Hodor to hold the door against them. And he did. For as long as he could.” She weeps in silent anguish, now, and Jon closes his eyes. The gentle giant he’d grown up with, timid and always kind, had carried his brother through this entire journey. He’d protected him until the very end, but the heroic death isn't what hurts him. Jon fights against the thought, ultimately knowing though, that Hodor may be worse off than dead by now. He might be a soldier.

 

Jon stands, finally ready to leave Meera in peace, but she turns to him with a horrifying guilt in her eyes and groans, “I’m so sorry.” She reminds him of his sister then, small and fierce, and haunted with the burden of every life she couldn’t save. Jon grabs onto her arms as she chokes the pain out of her throat, bracing around this stranger as she bleeds out the anguish of her war in front of him. He doesn’t say anything, nor offer so much as a soothing shush, just holds onto her for as long as she needs and then helps her back to the chair. 

When she has relaxed enough to speak again, she asks, “Will you protect him, when he goes north?”

“Of course, but, will you not be coming with him?”

She lowers her head again and concedes definitively, “He doesn’t need me anymore. He’s as safe as anyone can be now.” 

This is when the full heartbreak of the woman is revealed to him. After all that she’s been through, and all that she’s done for his brother, for the _realm_ , likely, she is now only another forgotten foot soldier in the Great War. Meera lost Bran, in the end. She’d gotten him home, but the love only a journey like that can build was taken from her. Jon knows he’d never be brave enough to face that. 

 

He can't find the words to say, but he doesn’t have to as a throat clearing calls his attention to the door. 

“Forgive me,” Podrick states quietly from the archway. “Your brother is with Lady Sansa in his chamber. He’s asked that you join them.”

“In a little while,” Jon begins. He doesn’t want to leave her now, not like this. But she stops his hesitation by looking him in the eyes with renewed strength and fierce urgency.

“Go to him," she commands, "and listen to what he says, always. He’s the Three-eyed Raven now and, whatever it takes, you have to protect him.” 

Jon nods his wary vow in silence and then moves to Podrick, though his eyes remain on the ominous girl. “Look after her, will you?” he whispers to the squire. Then he leaves, his feet guiding him uninstructed with his mind still entranced in all he’s heard.

 

***

 

When Jon enters the chamber of his brother, the first thing he sees is their hands breaking apart. Sansa is on the edge of Bran’s bed, and he is sitting beneath the furs. With only his night shirt covering his torso now, Jon can see just how thin his brother is. Still, he looks strong. 

Sansa lowers her eyes to her lap where both her hands are now resting, and Jon pulls a chair over, sitting to face his brother’s bed. 

“Thank you for coming,” Bran begins strangely, as if this were a summit, then adds more unsettlingly, “And thank you for comforting Meera.” 

Sansa looks at Jon then, but he is still trying to get used to the jarring reminder that Bran can… well, see things. 

“Is everything alright?” Jon isn’t sure what he means by the question, then he looks at Sansa again and sees that she has been crying. “What is it?” He’s asking her now.

“Bran knows," she whispers shakily, "about us.” 

 

Jon’s heart stops and plummets into his bowels. He can’t bring himself to turn and look at him, but he can’t look at her anymore either, so he looks away. It hadn’t occurred to him, he hadn’t gotten there yet. But to face it now, like this... Jon is completely disarmed. The only impulse that occurs to him is to run, but then he is granted mercy from his brother's voice. 

“It’s okay,” Bran tells him calmly. “It’s a good thing.” 

Jon jerks his face to him in shock. “What?”

“I’ve seen it. Not all of it, of course. I've learned how to look away when I need to.” 

He thinks he sees a slight twitch in the corner of Bran’s mouth, but can’t be sure. Regardless, Jon’s skin is fluxing between shades of deep red and pale green. 

“You were meant to be together,” Bran continues, his words that of a prophet's. “Your paths are aligned. It will take all the strength of your love to win this war, and all wars to come. So you must _never_ abandon it.” 

Jon is held spellbound in all three eyes of the Raven, but then Bran turns toward the window as if he’d just awoken to the sound of a morning birdsong. He looks to Sansa, but her clasped hands have stolen her attention again. 

 

“I don’t understand,” Jon woefully confesses.

“You will," the prophet foretells. "Just not yet. It isn’t time, yet. But soon you will know all there is to know, and then you will see the truth of it.” Bran turns to him again, and the eyes that meet him now are only his brother’s as he asks, “Can you put your trust in me, Jon?”


	35. Visions

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa and Jon discuss their strange family, and Howland gives Jon a gift.

Sansa is fully fretting, having paced a significant groove in the pebbled floor of her chamber. Jon isn’t watching anymore, as this has been going on for a while, so now he looks around the whimsical room instead. Having never been in here before, he takes an interest in how completely different her room is from his. 

Her walls are not oak covered in moss. In fact, he isn’t sure what the walls are made of as they are draped in thick, swirling curtains of willow branches, delicately braided with orchids interspersed on the vines. Her bed is in the center of the room, like a low pedestal, having no posts cornering its structure. Upon closer examination, he realizes the pillowy mattress is cradled into a vast stump rising out of the floor. And instead of a hearth, the room is bordered by a meandering path of shallow stone wells with low candles floating on water. 

 

“Jon!”

“What?”

He turns to her pleading face and tries again. “Sansa, everything is going to be fine.”

“How can you say that?”

“Sa–”

“No, really. What about any of this is fine, Jon? My little brother is some sort of bird wizard now, who apparently sees everything, including my _other_ brother, who I’m in love with, which the wizard brother says is just fine because, oh right, we’re supposed to save the world?”

Jon’s heart fills, despite himself. She’s never really said it before. Still, he doesn’t interrupt.

“Arya is a weird killer magician or something, and can enter the minds of animals." Sansa remembers, suddenly urging, "And you wouldn’t believe what Bran told me she can do with her _face._ ” Jon winces in guilty admission and then Sansa fumes. “You _knew_?”

“I saw it,” he cringes and Sansa gapes at him incredulously. “I didn’t know how to tell you.” 

“Really, Jon. What in seven hells are we going to find out about Rickon? What even _is_ a unicorn?” 

 

Jon decides to move to her then, as she is likely to make herself sick. She tries to turn away in defiance but he puts his arms around her from behind, holding her steady. Then he pulls her hands apart from the clench they hold on each other, taking them in his. 

His body calms her, and she takes a breath. Then she shoves his hands with hers in renewed anger, but she doesn’t let go. “And you,” she accuses. “You died!”

He laughs at her now, and lays his chin on her shoulder with pity. She was right, this poor girl. “At least we still have the Lady of Winterfell to hold us all together. Whatever creatures the rest of us have become, we still have one human Stark left.” 

With that she does release his hands, and he releases her arms when she pulls away from him with sudden alarm.

 

“What?” Jon asks, truly concerned. “Sansa, what?”

“I don’t know,” she says quickly, not looking at him. It is so strange to form these words with her mouth, especially about herself. “I think I’ve been having… visions.”

Jon can’t help his instinctual doubt. She has been under quite a bit of stress, but by now he’s learned better than to dismiss anything as such, particularly when it comes to his siblings. “Tell me what you saw.” 

Sansa still isn’t sure what she saw, but she tries to explain as best she can what happened when she held Bran’s hand in the guest hall. “I tried to tell myself I was just imagining it as he described the cave. But I was there, Jon. I could smell it. And there was this crow. It was so loud.” 

She sits on the edge of her bed with the vivid memory of it, and he keeps watch from a distance. “And then when I was in his room, he took my hand again and I saw…” 

Jon waits, and waits, but it is almost as though she had been frozen in time. She doesn’t close her mouth, nor continue to speak. He is frightened now, and moves to her, kneeling on the pebbles by her feet. “Sansa, what? What was it?”

“A baby.”

Her eyes remain glazed over, directed toward nothing and Jon puts his hand on her face to try and bring her back. “What baby?” 

Sansa closes her eyes for a moment, shaking her head slightly as if to awaken herself again. Then she shrugs and looks down at her brother. “I don’t know. It was just a baby. I didn’t see anything else.” 

 

He lifts himself from the floor and sits next to her on the bed, wrapping a gentle arm around her waist. They sit quietly for a moment, but then something occurs to Jon.

“Maybe it’s because he touched you. Maybe that’s part of his… ability. To show others what he sees.”

“I don’t know,” Sansa hesitates. “He didn’t seem to notice it had happened. And there were other…” She stops herself fully now, remembering that she didn’t want to share that part.

“Other what,” he insists. “Sansa, has this happened before?”

She sighs, looking at his sweet, worried face. It will be embarrassing, but she trusts him and doesn’t want him to imagine something worse. So, she tells him. She reveals her dreams, and the visions she's had during the day, ever since the ship. She tells him how she had thought they must just be fantasies. But then, after that night together in the Vale, and nights they've shared in Greywater Watch, even in the Quiet Isle maybe, Sansa recognizes now that she had seen some of it before it happened. She didn't realized it at first, as the dreams had taken such a frustrating hold on her that nothing seemed clear for a while. But when she was staring at the fire wrapped in his arms on their first night in this place, she remembered she had dreamed of his chamber before, every detail of it, and she’d felt the push of the oak on her back. Remembering the vision was what had roused her in the night to take his jerkin. 

Jon’s face is a mixture of confusion and arousal. Hearing that she had been plagued with images of him, day and night, while they were apart gives him a possessive pleasure he isn’t proud of, so he tries to hide it. “Sansa, whatever this is, it will be okay.”

 

She looks at him with defiance, but then he continues, “What happened to me, to Arya, to Bran, it all seems to be leading us somewhere. I know it is all strange, but can’t you see there must be a purpose behind it.”

“I thought you didn’t believe in prophecies,” she offers softly. Her intention was to reference Bran’s haunting declaration, but Jon takes it another way. 

“I’m not trying to claim I am this promised prince, or whatever. I’m just saying, we all are finding our way back together. Winter is coming and we are going home. We are going to war, and not just with the Boltons. Sansa, I’ve seen it. I know what is coming for us, for everyone, everywhere. Maybe it is going to take all the magic, and visions, and face-shifting we can rally together to fight it. But that's got to be better than facing it alone.” 

Sansa peers into his beautiful face, running a hand through his hair for comfort. He doesn’t talk much about what is waiting beyond the Wall, he never has, but she can see that his fears plague him. She doesn’t want him to hold the weight of it alone, but she’s never known how to unburden him. So, for now, she just kisses him. 

 

Jon feels his body stir with her touch. No matter how dark and cold the night gets, somehow, she can always warm him again. He deepens the kiss, brushing her lips lightly with his tongue until she grants him entry. The taste of her in his mouth again makes him quiver and he pulls back for a moment to look at her with lust. “Sansa,” he smiles wryly, “tell me more about your visions.”

She smirks at him but then his mouth moves to her neck and she submits. “I saw you,” she begins between breaths, “touching me and kissing me, like this.” He moves his mouth lower, sucking his way down to her collarbone, then slowly pulls her skin between his teeth. Sansa gasps at the sensation, then a flicker appears behind her eyes and she says, “I felt you. You were inside of me, making love to me.” Jon stills, releasing his bite, and then lifts his face to hers. 

Sansa fears he might be angry with her again, as his eyes are so cruel, but then he grabs her by the hair and thrusts himself against her lips with a force so powerful that it pushes her onto her back. His mouth swallows her whole and she writhes under him, trying to pull him closer with all of her need. Then he moves to her ear, nipping it just hard enough to make her whimper. 

“Sansa,” he growls, his breath pushing waves of heat onto her sensitive neck. “I have to go.”

“What? No,” she whines. Her hands pull on his back as if she hopes to somehow garner the muscles she doesn’t possess, overpowering him with her strength for once. 

Jon laughs apologetically and then lifts himself up slightly to look at her. Brushing her lips with his thumb he explains. “I have to go get ready for the feast.”

Sansa protests, “There’s plenty of time.”

He kisses her again, and then fully sits up, leaving her furiously frustrated. “Lord Reed has asked that I meet with him before dinner.” He stands and offers her a hand that she grudgingly takes. Jon pulls her into his arms and makes his request. “Perhaps I could escort you back to your room after the feast, my lady." She blushes despite her intentions of remaining annoyed. "I’m going to miss this place,” he states looking around at the mystical splendor of Greywater Watch. “Let’s spend our last night here together, before the battles begin.”

Sansa nods, smiling and in love. Then he kisses her again, slowly, and leaves.

 

***

 

“Jon, my boy. Come in, please.” Howland is cheerful and beaming, as he welcomes Jon into his study. He pours them both a drink and Jon sits with him, trying to focus on the man who’d provided them so much over the past few days. Still, Sansa’s lips are hard to purge from his mind.

“I’d like to thank you, Lord Reed. I came here looking for help in the battle for Moat Cailin, and ended up with my brother and sister back with me.”

“I had no part in any of that, but I will toast to it all the same.” They bring their ale together and drink happily. Then, Howland’s good mood falters slightly as he adds, “And I’m thankful to have my daughter back, however it came about.” They drink again, to Meera.

"I met her today," Jon offers. “I didn’t mean to disturb her but I’d gotten lost and came across her room. She’s an amazing person, truly." Then Jon adds with regret, "She's been through quite a lot.”

Howland smiles softly and nods. Jon thinks he sees his eyes water a little, but then he takes a breath of optimism and states, “She’s going to be alright. Meera’s always been strong.” 

Jon returns his nod and allows for the subject to drop by taking a drink of ale. Then Howland gets to the reason he’d asked him there.

 

“There is something I wanted to give you,” he begins. “It’s something I should have given you a long time ago. But first I’d like to tell you a story, if you’d be so kind as to indulge an old man.” 

“Of course,” Jon smiles, setting his mug down to listen.

“Ned and I were friends, you know that.” Jon nods. “But I was also friends with his sister, Lyanna.”

“Father never spoke of her.”

“No. He loved her very much, and when she died… I think it was just too hard.” 

Jon understands. He’d never thought much about the woman but found himself curiously engrossed in the perspective of this man who could provide a link to his family. All of that generation are gone now, so this man’s memory is all that remains of the people who came before him. 

 

“I assume you’ve heard the tales of the tourney at Harrenhal,” Howland begins. 

Jon nods and the grimace on his face tells Howland which story of the event comes to mind. It was the most famed of them all, of course, the moment Prince Rhaegar made his intentions known. A crown of blue roses, lain upon the lap of Lyanna Stark, whom he would later kidnap and rape. Or so the story goes. 

“Lyanna is a big part of that legendary story. But there is another role she played at the tourney, one of which only I was gifted the knowledge.”

Jon sits up a little more, intrigued. 

 

“I was a man grown when I attended the tourney, but I’ve always been small. The crannogmen are fierce defenders of the Neck, as we are armed with the weapons of our people, fierce cunning and ancient knowledge of the marshes. Our role is to protect the North from southern invasion, but at Harrenhal I was beyond the protections of my people or the swamp.”

Howland describes the three young squires who’d attacked him that day, how they’d easily disarmed him of his frog spear and mocked him as they kicked him on the ground. He also tells of how Lyanna had come to his rescue, chasing them away and then dressing his wounds. 

“She introduced me to her brothers that night. Benjen offered to outfit me with a horse and armor so that I could avenge myself and ride against the knights those boys served. I wanted to, but I was too afraid that if I lost I would bring further shame to my people.” He laughs a little then, a response that surprises Jon.

“When the time came for the knights to joust, a mysterious champion appeared among the lists, a small knight with mismatched armor and a shield carved with the face of a smiling weirwood. The Knight of the Laughing Tree defeated all three of them that day, winning their horses and armor. When the knights tried to ransom back their property, the champion told them through a heavy helm that the price would be to teach their squires proper manners. Which they did. But before anyone could unmask this strange champion, she had disappeared.”

“Lyanna?” Jon asks, remembering that one of the few things he knows about his aunt is that Arya has often been compared to her. 

Howland nods with pride. Then he stops for a moment, considering one last time the choice he must make. Bran had warned him of the need to keep Ned’s secret, for just a while longer. 

_He has to win back Winterfell. Everything relies on that now. He won’t make it if he loses our father again before the battle_.

 

“She was my friend,” he continues. “I trusted her, and she trusted me." Howland sighs brutally with a sudden well of sorrow. "I was there the day Ned found her. When I’d reached them she was already gone, having died in his arms.” 

Howland and Jon both feel the darkness surround them with the thought. Then Howland speaks the rest quietly. “Rhaegar didn’t kidnap her. They’d planned it together, she confessed it to me before she disappeared and made me promise to keep her confidence. They were in love.”

Jon looks at him in shock. This was never something he’d thought too much about, but the idea that it had all been a lie hits him now. Before Jon can respond, Howland confesses the guilt he carries. “War was waged, thousands died, and I never told the truth. To anyone.” 

“You kept your promise,” Jon offers in consolation. He allows a brief moment to wonder what would have happened if everyone knew the truth. Would Robert have still rebelled? Would Father have joined him? And if not, would Jon have ever been born. “It’s in the past, now. There is no changing it, so why hold that burden? You're a good man, I know that. My father knew that, and so did she it seems.”

Howland leans back, examining the man across from him with an intimate recognition that Jon doesn't fully understand. Then he smiles again and says, “Yes, you’re right. What’s done is done. There are plenty of wars to face ahead without glimpsing back at those gone by. Now, I have something for you.”

Jon watches as Howland stands and moves to his mantle where he retrieves a small box. He opens it and pulls out roll of parchment, sealed with the sigil of House Stark. He examines it thoughtfully and then hands it to Jon, but before he can open it Howland states, “You’ll want to look at that alone, I think. I’m afraid it is quite personal, and I haven’t the time to face my shame in keeping it from you for so long. There is a feast to be getting dressed for, after all.” He gestures kindly toward the door and Jon takes his cue to leave. 

 

He's tempted to read the scroll as soon as he rounds the corridor, but something stops him. Perhaps it is the dread of yet another unknown confronting him just now, as his mind has been distracted from the impending war enough with all the things he's learned in this short trip. Or perhaps the fear is because it is a letter from his father. Conjuring his honorable ghost by reading his words, Jon shamefully knows, might overwhelm his selfish desires to go to her tonight. So, he tucks the scroll into his cloak and continues his journey to the great hall.


	36. The Feast

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The beginning of the end in Greywater Watch.

The sights and sounds that greet him as Jon enters the great hall are nothing short of magical. Strange music is played, not like in the feasts of his home. Rather than bowing fiddles and plucking mandolins, the musicians of the marsh blow rhythmically into jugs and reeds to create their eerie sounds. Various hand drums form a hypnotic beat and polished shoots of bamboo emit rushing streams of song that make Jon feel like he is standing under a fall. 

The room is filled with round tables decorated with colorful, aromatic flowers the likes of which he has never seen. Blue and green ferns line that oak walls etched with larger, more terrifying versions of the beasts on the chair by Meera’s hearth. The lizard-lions stand guard along the walls, carved shields of sharp teeth and snaking tongues reaching for the long, muscled tails encircling around to meet the bite. Jon remembers feeling the creature brush his leg in the marsh, with the strength of twenty hard men. 

He sees his brother sitting at the far end of the hall, where the lord’s table is draped in black and green netting, so tightly woven that it would give the appearance of being a solid sheet, were it not for the glowing gold of the silk layer beneath it emerging through the braids. 

Jon approaches and observes Bran is wearing a vest of bronze scales over an olive tunic, and Meera is standing by his side. 

“My Lady, my Lord,” Jon greets them and then addresses Meera directly. “I was just with your father in his study, he should be along shortly.” 

“Thank you,” she nods kindly. “Is Lady Sansa with you? I look forward to meeting her.”

“I’m afraid not, but I believe she will be here soon.” 

Bran nods, gesturing toward the entrance, and when Jon turns he sees her. Standing tall among the crannogmen, Sansa is a wonder to behold. Her long auburn hair is plaited in a loose fishtail around her shoulder, and her gown is a flowing silk that seems to carry her in on a tide. 

Jon’s eyes roam over her as she approaches, noting the dress is almost the exact color of her crystal eyes. The silk is wrapped, crossing low between her breasts where it is held together by a roped belt circling around her several times, and clasped together in front by the interlock of silver fish hooks tipping each end of the cord. He stares at the sharp restraint for too long and Bran begins the introductions behind him.

“Sansa, this is Meera Reed.” 

“It’s so nice to meet you,” Sansa gushes, leaving Jon to his open mouth as she pulls Meera’s hands into hers. “Thank you so much for, for everything, I can’t, we’d never,” she is starting to cry but tries to regain her composure, not wanting to overwhelm the girl. “I’m sorry,” she ends, smiling and squeezing softly before freeing her hands.

Meera returns her warm smile and says, “Bran’s told me so much about you, I’m happy we are able to meet. My father speaks often of the important alliance between our houses. I’m glad that soon House Stark will be home in Winterfell again.”

“You will always have an honored place in my home, Lady Meera. The North remembers, and I will never forget what you have sacrificed for us.” She can no longer maintain herself and Sansa pulls the girl into an intimate embrace. 

Jon watches, a little concerned, but is then relieved to see Meera’s arms lift to his sister’s back. The hug lingers, and Jon notices that the women are whispering private words of comfort to one another. Then the hold tightens slightly before it is released, and Sansa leans down to greet Bran with a gentle kiss on the crown of his hair.

Lord Arryn and Lady Brienne enter the hall next, a handsome couple, with Podrick close behind also donning marsh-themed finery, just as everyone else is, Jon now notices. He looks down at the same northern leather he’s occupied since leaving the Wall, save one of the clean tunics he was provided by Howland, and wonders when everyone was outfitted with clothing more appropriate to the festivities. Then, he remembers he hadn’t returned to his room today, and shrugs the matter away. He’s wearing the cloak Sansa made for him, and it always makes him feel regal. 

Sansa passes Jon without a word, her silky arms brushing him lightly, and crosses the room to greet her companions. Jon overhears Meera telling Bran, “Your sister is so beautiful.”

“Yes, she is.” 

Bran speaks the words in a dull reflection of Jon’s vigorous thoughts, and his eyes remain on Sansa as Robin pushes past him to address Lord Stark.

“Who are you?” Sweetrobin implores.

“I’m the Three-eyed Raven.”

“Can you _fly_?”

“Yes.”

He turns back to them and Bran is staring at him in a way that is unsettling, so Jon nods his leave and makes his way to a rowdy corner of crannogmen crowded around what he assumes is Tormund.

From a distance, Jon feels more comfortable observing the scenes of the night. He’d always begrudged his position in the back of the feast hall growing up, but now he feels a strange apprehension for when it is time to take his place at the lord’s table. 

The sea of swamp soldiers parts and Tormund stands from the bench he occupied, lifting an intricately knotted net that he’s fashioned with pride. When he sees Jon, he pulls him over by the neck and starts explaining the significance of his accomplishment.

“The net tightens if you pull it here,” Tormund instructs. “But it won’t ever loosen. And you can’t cut it away either, not unless you push your knife into your own skin, to the bone.” 

He is so impressed with himself that Jon almost wonders whether he will demonstrate.

“It’s a fine weave,” a man joining Tormund says. He is wearing a bronze breastplate and spaulders, marked with a sigil of three lily pads, and leather cuffs over his otherwise bare and brawny arms. His skin is dark with a tint of green that extends through his long rows of dreadlocked hair. Turning to Jon, he introduces himself. “I am Ardan Fenn, and I will be leading the crannogmen in the attack.”

Jon clasps arms with the soldier. “Thank you, my Lord. House Stark appreciates the generous support of your people.”

“My people are not generous,” the warrior explains. “There must always be a Stark in Winterfell, and it is the duty and honor of the crannogmen to fight for your family’s return.”

Jon nods and the man returns to his eager crowd to instruct the order of departure. Looking around the increasingly populated hall, Jon sees Podrick standing by Meera and he whispers something to her out of the side of his mouth that makes her laugh a little. Robin has taken a seat by Bran and seems to be talking endlessly to the unresponsive Raven.

He walks around the perimeter of the room, observing the animated conversations and intriguing sights, but there is only one real target of his search. 

“Looking for someone?” Her breath hits the back of his neck, sparking a blaze that travels directly south. 

Jon turns and sees that Sansa has approached from an archway that leads to a balcony garden. She moves closer, taking advantage of the crowded space. 

“Been enjoying the night sky?” he asks in an attempt to converse casually. The sight of her makes his voice coarse, though. 

She smiles wickedly. “You can’t see the sky from this place, but the water is quite _breathtaking_.” Sansa presses the front of her hand against his trousers, just for a moment, and then walks away from him, again. 

Jon is transfixed watching the way her dress silhouettes the back of her, and the full awareness of her grope comes to him on a delay. His blood heats and the pounding in his ears gets louder along with the crowd. Eventually, he recognizes that the masses surrounding him are cheering to greet the arrival of their lord.

Howland Reed enters the great hall, beaming in his fine cloak of black and green, crowned in a wreath of cattails, and clapping the shoulders of his people. He makes his way to the head table, and stands in formation with his arm around his daughter. Jon follows to join in the lineup of nobility, Bran centered with Meera and Howland to his right, Robin and Sansa to his left. Jon takes his place on the end next to her. 

Just before the roar quiets, Sansa leans a little closer to Jon so that only he can hear and whispers, “I want to touch you tonight.”

When the crowd comes to attention, Howland addresses them in a jovial boom and everyone takes their seat. 

“Friends, welcome. It is my deepest honor to host you all, alongside the sons and daughter of House Stark, as we prepare for the wars to come. We all know that the North is under great threat, from within and without. My heart broke when Lord Eddard was betrayed and killed so far from home. We _all_ mourned his loss. When Robb, the King in the North, and Lady Catelyn were murdered by their own bannermen, some of whom now claim to rule us, we knew this day would come. The time for justice is upon us. We will work together to return the Starks to their rightful place in Winterfell, to protect ourselves from those who would see us dead or flayed or worse. But tonight, we will feast. Tonight, we will remember what it is to be happy. Now please, eat, drink, and enjoy yourselves!”

The people cheer, standing again in ovation. Sansa lifts herself up before Jon, placing a firm grip on his thigh for leverage, then joins in the applause.

The food is served, a variety of fish, rice, frog, and mushrooms, and the ale flows deep. People dance to the rhythmic beats of the marsh and it would be hard to notice that they were all on the brink of war. 

Jon tries to get Sansa’s attention more than once during the meal, but she is overcome with fascination in Robin Arryn’s descriptions of the things he’s seen at Greywater Watch. She leans her undivided attention toward the boy, allowing for her dress to fall open just slightly as she holds her arms in a way that protects the view from all but Jon. 

Eventually, Bran excuses himself and Meera stands to lead him back to his chamber for rest, kissing her father goodnight as she takes her leave. Sansa notices that Jon has disappeared as well, and decides to relieve herself from the company of her betrothed when Podrick mercifully offers his ear to the young lord. 

She makes her way back to the garden on the vast balcony, disappointed to find it empty, but grateful for respite from the crowd. Sansa bends a little, admiring a strange purple flower growing in the dark shade of night. Then, a rough arm wraps around her waist and she is pulled backward into the shadows. 

Sansa tries to scream but his other hand catches it against his palm. Jon holds her firmly against him and he releases a warning snarl into her ear. She relaxes a little in his grip but then her heart jumps again as he presses his hard cock against her with fury.

“Do you see what you’re doing to me,” he charges into her ear. Sansa tries to reach behind her but Jon releases her and grabs both of her hands, forcing them around her front in a restraining hug. She moans a little as he makes his point again with another thrust. “You keep up your little games and I’m going to make you regret it.” 

Jon secures both of her wrists against her heaving belly in one strong grip. Then he pushes his free hand into her dress, kneading the flesh of her breast greedily, before pulling her aching nipple between his knuckle and thumb. Sansa bites down hard on her lip to keep from crying out and Jon lowers his mouth to her neck, just under her braid, sucking his mark into her skin until her knees begin to shake. Then, as if nothing happened, he releases her entirely and walks away without a second glance.

When Sansa has finally composed herself enough to return to the feast, she sees Jon drinking and talking spiritedly with Howland at the lord’s table. She’s furious, and far from ready to concede defeat, so she joins them, taking a seat next to Jon. 

“I’m going to miss you two when you go,” Howland slurs lovingly at the pair. “Promise you will come and visit us again when winter is over.”

“It would be our honor, Lord Reed,” she agrees sincerely. “And you must come to Winterfell as well.” Sansa takes advantage of the draped covering on the table, pulling the split of her dress open around her legs. 

“I’m afraid that isn’t likely, my dear. I haven’t left Greywater Watch in years. My place is here with my people. Holding the neck.”

Jon smiles kindly and nods, posing no inquiry against the man’s choice to maintain his refuge. He can understand the impulse to stay close to home after all of the horror that has come to his family when they’d left. 

A spry old woman with branches in her tousled braids approaches the table. Clearly deep into her cups, she flings a wrinkled hand at her lord and commands, “Dance with me, you old frog! See if you can still keep up.” 

Howland lets out a hearty chortle and begs his leave of Jon and Sansa, warning, “I dare not refuse and bring shame upon my house.” Then he takes the woman’s hand and follows her into the crowd shouting, “Goodmother, show mercy or you’ll orphan your beloved granddaughter!” 

Jon laughs at the sight of Howland spinning around with the crone in his arms, a sight so distracting that he forgets to keep his defenses sharp. 

“Jon,” she says softly. He turns and his eyes widen when he sees what she is doing. With one arm casually draped across the table in front of her, as if holding the dullest of conversations, Sansa’s other arm is resting in her lap. Leaning back slightly to give him a better look, she exaggerates the movement of her fingers dipping in and out of her exposed cunt. 

He takes a reprimanding breath and wants to storm away from her torment, but knows the extension of his breeches is far too obvious now. So, instead, he grabs her by the arm, pulling her hand away, and asks with conspicuously loud concern, “Lady Sansa, are you alright?” 

She looks confused, but then his grip on her arm pulls and she is being lifted to her feet. He keeps her positioned in front of him and they begin to cross the room. Howland looks questioningly at them as they pass, Sansa flushed and disoriented, and Jon informs him over the noise of the crowd. “I’m afraid my sister has over indulged. I think it is time I got her safely to bed.”

Howland laughs, giving Sansa a look of knowing pity and then claps Jon on the shoulder with an approving dismissal. “Get some rest, and I’ll see you both off in the morning.” Jon nods and proceeds with marching his sister through the door. 

 

***

 

When they arrive at her chamber, Jon still hasn’t released his hold on her arm despite her many attempts at wrestling herself free. He refuses to speak to her either, answering her annoyed pleas for communication with only cool silence. 

Once inside he locks her door and shoves both of her already roaming hands against it. Sansa squirms, trying to touch his body with some part of hers as she swears at him, but he stands out of reach, holding her until she has settled down and shut up. Then he waits for her eyes to fix fully on his before he begins.

“You’ve got quite the mouth on you tonight,” he scolds. “You hoping to do something with it, hmm? And those hands?” He squeezes her wrists a little harder and she bites her lip, nodding. Then he presses his raging cock against her until she moans with need. He moves his face closer to hers and she tries to kiss him but he is just out of reach. 

“Jon,” she begs, “please. I want to touch you.”

He laughs a little before his face darkens further. “Oh no,” he informs her. “I warned you, and now you’re going to see I am a man of my word.”

Sansa watches as Jon scans down her body with dangerously slow concentration and it makes her tremble.

“You’re mine, now,” he growls. “Those hands, that mouth,” he leans his lips against her ear, “your cunt, they all belong to me. You don’t get what you want until I say you can have it. Do you understand me?” 

Sansa only whimpers as she tries to close the distance between them again with her hips. 

“Sansa!” he demands, jolting her a little as he returns his consuming eyes to hers. “Do you understand?” 

Finally, she stills. He feels her arms relax against his grip in submission and she shifts her body back against the door, waiting. 

He smiles, victoriously. “Now, can I let you go? Or do I have to tie your hands behind your back until I’m ready for them?” 

“ _Jon,_ ” she gasps, fully scandalized. But then she considers the idea for a moment and blushes harder, intrigued, but not quite that brave. “No, I’ll be good. I promise.” Sansa smiles at him innocently and he frees her at last. 

“We’ll see,” he smirks. Then he grants her one deep, longing kiss, shooing her already rising hands away from him again, before then stepping back for a better look. 

Sansa presses her palms against the wood at her back, reminding herself to keep them at bay, and then stands tall at the ready for him. Jon refrains from touching her yet, using only his eyes to trace slowly down her naked chest until they meet the center of her gown. Then, in one hard snap of his fingers, he unlinks the hooks holding her belt clasped around her ribs. The rope falls into a heap on the floor and the gown opens, a split curtain running down the length of her body, exposing her dark mound to the night air. 

“Take it off,” he orders, putting distance between them again. Jon can see her hands shaking as she pulls the silk from her shoulders and drops it to her feet, leaving her naked to his stare. His cock pulses against the tight grip of his clothes and he starts to sweat, still layered in leather and fur. 

“Please, Jon” she whispers. “I want to see you, I want to feel you.” 

He doesn’t answer, only slightly shakes his head no as his eyes continue to invade every detail of her form. Then he lifts his gaze back to her eyes and, before she can plead again, he gives her another command. “Sansa, open your legs.”

She begins to move her step apart slightly until he instructs, “ _more_ ,” and she obeys. 

Sansa’s breath begins to quicken as he stalks slowly back and forth before her. The night air arouses her skin into tight chills and she longs for the warmth of his body to be closer. Then, she pulls her stomach in with anticipation as he finally makes his approach. The heat of him warms her instantly but he still won’t touch her. She begs silently, remaining still, for fear that he will make her suffer even longer. 

Jon grips her with his devouring stare and then wets his lips with his tongue. Sansa prepares herself for the ecstasy of his kiss, parting her mouth in need, but then inhales sharply when instead he lowers himself to his knees. 

She can barely release the question of his name before his face pushes against her sex and he breathes her in with a groan. Sansa is forced to break her promise then, but only to steady herself by planting her palms on his shoulders. Jon brings his hands to her at last, gripping the back of her thighs to spread them further apart, and then presses his mouth down against her slit. 

Sansa spasms with the feel of his kiss and her pulse begins to throb so hard that the room around her darkens. Then he opens his mouth, peeling her lips open with his as he takes his first taste. The slick of his tongue pushing up through her folds is too much and she buckles, her belly falling against the top of his head. 

Jon lifts one of her legs to rest on his cloaked shoulder for support and then gently presses her back against the door. He looks up at her for a moment, unable to prevent his smile when he sees the crazed contortion of her face, and then dives back in, deep. 

He thrusts himself into her with long, hard laps, gulping down the liquid flowing freely from her now. She sings to him in pained cries of pleasure and he nuzzles harder against her raw flesh, filling his lungs with her scent and his throat with her taste. 

“Jon,” she finally manages to cry. “I can’t… It’s too… stop!”

He presses another satisfied smirk against her heat before granting her mercy and pulling his mouth away. Then he moves the leg around his shoulder as he stands, wrapping it around his waist, lifting the other to meet it as he carries her to her bed. He sits her down on the edge and kneels in front of her, kissing her softly on the neck.

Finally, he brings his attention back to her eyes as he caresses her body lightly with his fingers, up her back, across her shoulder, and then up to her face. Then he kisses her, holding her lips with his before pressing her taste into her own mouth with his tongue. She inhales deeply with the novelty of it and then he pulls back to examine her state.

“Are you ready?” he asks quietly. 

She isn’t sure what for but she nods in drunken surrender, her tongue still exploring the traces on her lips. Jon opens her legs again, lifting her knees so that her heels rest on the mattress. He leans into her, pressing his body against her heat as his mouth returns briefly to hers. Then he starts his slow, agonizing journey down her neck to find her breasts, pulling each into his lips as his hands roam over her thighs. His feast of her skin lowers to her stomach, where his hands meet him, sliding up from her hips to press against her waist and lay her back on the bed. 

Positioning himself between her thighs, he brushes one hand across her mound, pulling down until the base of his palm presses against her open gate. His other hand steadies against her thigh as her legs convulse spontaneously. Then he brings his hand lower, trailing his fingertips through her soft curls, until he finds the top of her cleft. 

Her hips lift up and he lowers his mouth to meet her thrust. He pulls his hand lower and enters her slowly, fucking her with his fingers as his tongue lavishes along the groove of her arch, exploring every quivering curve with deliberation before sucking the tight ball of her peak into his lips. Sansa keens wildly, pressing her aching cunt against him, losing all control. 

Jon tightens his grip on her thigh, just enough to keep her from throwing them both to the floor as he pumps inside of her harder, bringing her closer with every stroke. Then he feels the rip of his scalp as her hands grab onto his hair, smashing his face against her. She screams and he pulls his fingers away, gripping her ass with both hands to lift her higher, his tongue and lips smothering her gape as she comes, swallowing the pulses of her flowing rush. 

Sansa remains clamped around him, thighs, fists, cunt, all flexed in brutal capture as her waves of heat continue to throb against his touch. Then, finally, she finds the air again and falls lifeless against the bed. 

Jon stands, taking in the sight of his kill, before slowly crossing the room to find a chair that he carries over near the bed. Sansa is still gasping, unable to move, but manages to turn her head slightly enough to see him remove his cloak and hang it across the back of the chair. 

She lifts her head now and feels that her body has regained some feeling, so she pulls herself up on her elbows to watch. He sits in the chair and bends down to unlace his boots, then kicks them off before rising to his feet again. He stares at her as his hands start to open his jerkin and she sits up, shifting her legs underneath her so that she is kneeling and sitting back on her heels. Her attention remains focus as the leather is carefully folded and brought to rest on the chair. 

Jon moves a little closer to her as he pulls his tunic over his head and his façade wavers slightly to gage her response to seeing the scars again. Her eyes meet his and the desire behind them is unmistakable, so he finishes the rest by pulling his breeches down and away from his legs. His cock bends with the weight of his arousal as he displays himself to her fully. He stands in front of the bed and she moves closer to him, her eyes exploring the ridges and smooth surfaces of his body, until Jon leans down and pulls one of her hands in his. 

Sansa looks up at him nervously and he holds her gaze as he brings her soft hand to his hard flesh, guiding it gently along his length. It pulses against her touch, already on the edge as a result of her torture and taste. 

“What should I do?” she asks timidly. 

Jon closes his eyes with restraint and replies, “Anything you want, Sansa.” 

He releases her hand, letting her guide her own exploration, and her fingers start to move up and down in slow study. Then she curves them down underneath his shaft and brushes them gently against his tight sac. This elicits as groan from Jon and she decides to cup her hand beneath it, lifting his weight in her palm. She looks up to him for guidance but his eyes are still closed so she moves her attention back to the length extending in front of her face. She wraps her hand around him as she had seen him do, and wonders how hard to grip. Then she remembers what he did first and she pulls her hand back, wetting her palm with her tongue and then touches him again, rubbing the moisture around the tip of his cock. 

Jon’s eyes bolt open and he looks down at her with fierce need. She smiles at him and starts to pump him in her fist like he’d shown her. His breath gets short and he brings a hand to the back of her neck. She licks her lips in concentration and the sight makes him accidentally tighten his grip on her nape, pulling her hair so that her head yanks back slightly. She increases her speed and Jon is held captive at the sight of her parted lips so close to his tip. Suddenly, he is choked with fear of losing his hold over the beast within so he lowers his mouth to occupy hers and pushes her back on the bed. 

Jon rolls to the side, pulling her with him, and wraps her leg around his hip as she continues to work him with her hand. His balls tighten as they press against her dripping cunt and he pulls the flesh of her breast into a bruising clench. Their mouths moan against each other in the desperation of wanting their bodies closer and Sansa grinds her need against him. She jerks him harder between their aching hips and Jon drops his grip to her ass, pulling her hard against him as he groans his release, hot sprays of seed covering her hand, and her tits, and their stomachs in a messy display.


	37. No Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has a disturbing dream and Jon reads the letter.

Jamie decides to skip the feast, despite the generous invitation from Howland and the green frock provided to him by a strange small woman earlier that day. He rounds a corridor, attempting to find his man in this maze of verdure, as they are set to leave the castle soon. 

But an ambush of dread meets him at the turn, as he is suddenly confronted with the face he’d last seen as it disappeared from the window in the Broken Tower. 

He is speechless, staring into the eyes of his crippled victim, as they stare back at him with cold indifference. It is the girl behind him who speaks. 

“I need to get him to his chamber,” she informs the stranger protectively. “He needs to rest.” 

“Meera,” Bran says softly. “This is Jaime Lannister. I need to speak with him.”

Jaime still doesn’t say anything, but looks to the boy’s guard as she plunges the knowing dagger of her glare into his gut. Then she pushes forward, opening the chamber door, and then holds it for Jaime to enter first. 

Once inside, Jaime corners himself near the hearth as Bran and Meera station in front of the exit, and he prepares himself to face the long-awaited justice of his crime. 

“Lord Stark,” he begins. But what is there to say?

“I’m not Lord Stark,” Bran replies eerily. “I’m the Three-eyed Raven.”

Jaime narrows his brow in confusion, but does not question. 

“I can see everything,” he continues in practiced recitation. “I can see all that has ever happened, and everything happening now, to everyone. And it’s all because of you.”

He is frightened as well as lost now, asking, “What do you mean?”

“When you pushed me from the tower, the Raven came to me for the first time. He showed me what I was and what I was meant to be. I travelled north to find him beyond the Wall, and he gave me his sight so that I could lead the way for others when the Long Night comes again.”

Jaime watches the detached figure as he speaks and fears the fall may have taken more than just his legs. He looks to Meera, as one would look to a caretaker of the demented, but she remains defensively fixed by his side.

“Bran,” she cautions without shifting her watch over the knight. “You shouldn’t trust him.”

“He won’t betray me,” the Raven professes. “He has a role to play as well, and he needs to know what that is.”

They pause the consult, staring at the confounded subject of their deliberation, and Jaime is forced to consider the words more earnestly. Brienne told him of what Jon had seen beyond the Wall. He didn’t want to believe it, but her faith in others has never been easily earned and so he knew it must be true. 

“How am I…” he begins blindly, but Bran offers the answer before Jaime is fully able to know the question.

“You must go to Moat Cailin with Jon and protect my sister during the battle. Then you will go find your brother. He is on his way to Dragonstone, with Daenerys Targaryen. She has three dragons and we need them if we are to defeat the Army of the Dead.”

“Tyrion?” It is the only way he knows to convey his hesitation to the order.

“He killed your father,” Bran acknowledges. 

“I know.”

“But he didn’t kill your son. It was Olenna Tyrell. She poisoned him with a substance called the strangler. She wanted it to look as though he had only choked, but the poison is more powerful than that.”

The truth of it sinks in as Jaime waits for further explanation or instruction. He’s waiting for his sentence as well. But Bran just turns to Meera and offers her his hand. 

She understands the signal without words and pulls his arm around her shoulders, hoisting the grown man with a strength Jaime wouldn’t have been able to recognize, and then lowers his body to the bed. Bran uses his arms to shift himself around as Meera lifts his legs to the mattress, and then it occurs to Jaime that he should offer to help, but he doesn’t. 

“I need to rest now,” Bran tells the still paralyzed and unnerved man. Meera gestures at him with a more pointed directive to leave and Jaime is unbound once again. He nods, moving past the two to let himself out but then stops with his hand on the door and turns back.

“I’m sorry,” he admits quietly. “I’ll never regret anything more for the rest of my days.”

“Yes,” the Raven agrees, but that is all he offers and so, Jaime goes. 

 

***

 

Sansa dozes upon the soft furs, laying in Jon’s arms as he watches her sleep. He softy strokes lazy patterns into her intoxicating body, tracing the line of her leg up to her hip. Then he slides his fingers behind her, ranging the hills of her bottom, and dips sinfully into the thin crevice where they meet. She shifts a little and he abandons the secret invasion, instead moving his hand slowly up the curve of her back. 

When the smooth silk of her skin turns jagged under his touch, he freezes, and the pain of her suffering returns to him like a knife piercing his heart once again. Jon hadn’t yet allowed the horrible image of what happened to her fully form in his mind. The fear of confronting it was just too much. He had hoped to wait for the moment when the man’s life was held in his hands so he could then unchain the raging beast in all its vicious fury. 

But now, he finds he can’t pull away. His fingers spread across her scars, memorizing every inch of mutilation in rigorous detail. Jon watches the peaceful face resting on his chest in slumber, but then the vision of her under that animal, screaming as he rapes her, as he cuts her, it all rushes in at once and drags him down into the terrible black depths again. His entire body shakes as he fights to banish the image from his mind, but he can feel the heat rising as his hand presses harder against her back. 

Sansa gasps, lurching upright in a sudden jolt, her fists grabbing at her stomach as she cries out in agony.

“Sansa!” Jon rises to her as she heaves in panic. “Sansa, calm down. It’s okay, you’re okay.”

He touches her and she whips around, eyes wild and in shock as if she hadn’t expected him to be there. She blinks a few times and then recognition seems to start coming back to her again. “Jon?” Her voice is strained and confused. 

“Yes, yes it’s me.” He puts his hand on her neck to soothe her, but he is shaking with fear himself. “Sansa, I’m here.” 

She looks around the room as she begins to regain some of the color in her face. Then she returns to him in full awareness, and tears begin to fall in a sudden storm of despair bursting from her core. He pulls her to him, and she presses her face into his chest as she weeps. 

He holds her close, and whispers, “Oh, sweet girl. Everything is alright.” 

“No,” she presses into him. “Oh Jon, it was so awful.” 

“It was only a dream, my love. You’re here with me, now.” He feels terrible, fearing he may have had some responsibility, but then she sits up and looks at him with greater urgency. 

“No,” she insists, shaking her head. “I don’t think it was a dream. No, no it wasn’t.” He sits up further, brushing her hair away from her face with his hand, as her eyes plead for him to understand. And then he does. 

Jon’s heart races as the terror starts to grip him too. “What is it? What happened?” She brings her hand to her mouth as though she might retch and he begs, “Sansa, what did you see?” 

She takes a few more breaths and then lowers her hand back to her stomach. “I was…” She looks down in horror and then back to him. “Jon, I was dying.” 

*** 

When Jaime somehow finds his room again, he is surprised to see that Brienne is waiting for him by his door. 

“What’s wrong?” she asks him immediately upon seeing his face. 

“Nothing,” he lies. Then he opens his door and invites her in. He can see that she won’t relent so he tries to deflect. “Not enjoying the feast?” 

“Lady Sansa left so there was no need for me to stay. Besides, I was worried you might leave without saying good bye.” 

Jaime looks at her, caught off guard by her direct honesty. He doesn’t reply with a snide remark as he might usually do. Instead, he smiles at her and then sits by the fire. “I wouldn’t do that,” he promises. Brienne joins him and he can see that she is still concerned so he sighs and offers, “I was just speaking with Brandon Stark.” 

“Oh.” She understands and he wishes she didn’t know this about him. He wishes he could take it all back. Then she asks, “Are you okay?” 

He laughs cynically before darkening again and says, “Of course I am. I can still walk.” 

Brienne lowers her head for a moment and Jaime looks at her, wondering why in the world this brave, noble woman would ever care about him. The weight of his sin is too much to hold with only one hand so he tries to shift the subject again. 

“Perhaps we won’t be leaving tonight after all,” he informs her. She looks at him, confused, so he adds, “He told me I’m supposed to go to Moat Cailin. Do you know what he is now?” 

Clarity comes to her and he can see by her slightly disturbed expression that she knows all about the Three-eyed Raven. “Lady Sansa says he has visions.” 

“Apparently. The all-knowing boy said I was to go with you all, so that I could protect Sansa during the fight.” Brienne flinches at this and he knows why so he offers, “I suppose it couldn’t hurt to have back up.” 

“You swore a vow to protect her the same as I did, Ser Jaime. I welcome your sword at her side, and mine.” He smiles at her again, honored. Then she adds, “It’s just…” 

“What?” he asks curiously. 

“Well, from what I’ve heard, Lord Stark seems to be rather accurate when it comes to these visions. Did he say anything else? Is there some threat he can see coming for her?” 

Jaime hadn’t really thought it through, yet. He shakes his head. “He didn’t say, only that I was to protect her during the battle and then go to find my brother.” 

“Your brother?” 

He suddenly finds himself no longer wishing to speak of visions. “I don’t know. It seemed as if Sansa would be fine. Now all I have to do is convince her brother to let me come.” 

“I’ll speak to him,” she asserts and it makes him smile again. 

“I thank you, good knight. But I think I can manage.” 

Brienne smiles now too, blushing a little at her own unbidden chivalry. They hold each other’s eyes for a moment, unexpectedly, and then she finds herself saying, “I’m glad you will be coming.” 

Jaime suddenly feels an impulse to reach for her, but he only nods, finding no words sufficient. 

*** 

Sansa is wrapped in his cloak sitting on the edge of her bed, as Jon sits across from her in the chair, wearing only his breeches. He’d pulled them on in haste as he rushed to find a servant in the corridor near her chamber. Requesting tea for Lady Sansa had earned him a strange look as the small woman hurried away to comply. It could have been the stab wounds, or it could have been the state of undress in which he’d emerged from his sister’s chamber, but he doesn’t care either way. All he cares about now is her. 

Jon watches as she takes a few sips of the warm liquid and then quietly asks, “Can you tell me where you were?” 

“I don’t know,” she responds trying to remember. 

“Was it… were you in Winterfell?” 

Sansa shakes her head. “No, I didn’t recognize anything. But, I think I was on the water.” 

“Why? What did you see?” 

“I’m not sure. It was really dark, and cold. Like I was in a dungeon, or a crypt. But I could hear waves, and I could taste salt like when we were sailing to the Vale.” Sansa shudders and closes her eyes. 

“Were you on a ship?” Jon doesn’t want to push her but he can’t help it. He needs to know what this all means. She shrugs, shaking her head a little, and he pulls his hands up to his face. “Sansa,” he begs, “you said you were dying. I _need_ to know what you saw.” 

“I’m sorry.” Her voice is weak now and he sees she is on the verge of tears again. “I couldn’t really see anything clearly. I just _felt_ it.” 

Jon thinks he might cry now, too. He reaches for her hand and she takes it, and it shocks him how cold she is. “Felt what, exactly?” 

“Blood,” she sighs, “and _so_ much pain.” 

This ends him. He moves next to her on the bed and pulls her into his arms so that he can reassure himself that she is still real, still alive. His motion sloshes her tea and she looks down to where it has wet the side of his cloak. Brushing it with her hand she can feel something in the lining and reaches in to find the letter tucked into the inner fold. 

“What is this?” she asks, pulling out the scroll. 

Jon can’t find the importance of anything but her at the moment and so he dismisses it saying, “It’s nothing.” 

Sansa turns it to see the seal of their house and looks at him curiously, sitting up from his clutched embrace. 

“Howland gave it to me," he relents. "That’s why he wanted to speak with me before the feast.” 

“Who is it from?” she urges, understanding now that the stamp was not made by him. “It has our seal.” 

Hearing her refer to it as _our_ seal seems strange. He’d never marked a letter with anything other than black before. He shrugs, still not seeing the priority of addressing it now. “I don’t know. I haven’t read it yet. He just said he should have given it to me a long time ago, and that I should read it in private.” Sansa looks at him with more confusion so he adds, “He said it was personal.” 

“It could be from Father,” she urges, shoving the letter into his hand with haste. “Jon, you have to read it.” 

He’d intended to, he thinks, only now he finds himself unsure whether he wants to at all. Jon looks at the concern on her still tear-stained face and realizes, even though the words of their father might bring him shame, they could also bring her comfort, and he’d give anything for a chance at that. 

Sansa watches closely as he breaks the wax, but before he can bring himself to open it he gives it back to her. “Will you do it?” he asks, once again needing her to be brave when he should be the one protecting her. 

She opens the scroll and he waits nervously as she reads it. Then she puts a hand over her mouth and returns her tearful eyes to him again. 

Jon braces himself and asks, “What does he say?” 

“It’s not from Father,” she says with an emerging smile that he wasn’t expecting. “It’s from Robb. Jon, he’s named you as his heir. You’re the King in the North.” 

He takes it from her then, reading the words for himself, but he still doesn’t understand. The sight of his brother’s handwriting throws him into the past with a sharp anguish. Robb had written him as often as he could when he was at the Wall, updating him on the war efforts, and confiding in him about the woman he was growing to love. Jon sighs, consumed with a wave of grief again that hadn’t come for him in a while. 

“Jon, say something!” 

He looks at her with sadness and begins to roll the parchment back up. “He must have known he might die in the war and nobody knew where Bran and Rickon were. It doesn’t matter now.” 

“Of _course_ it does,” she scolds. “Don’t you see? This is exactly what we were hoping for.” 

“What are you talking about?” Jon wonders if this might have been another vision, because how could this letter from years ago possibly have been part of any plan? And what does she mean by _we_? 

“You have been named King in the North. Winterfell is yours by right, now. Once we defeat Ramsay we can use this letter to persuade the Northern lords to declare our independence again.” Sansa’s expression is so vastly different from only a few moments ago that Jon can hardly believe it. 

“No, Sansa. This was written when I was the only option left. But the rest of you are still alive, and soon we will all be returning home.” 

“Bran doesn’t want to rule, you heard him. Besides, Robb wanted it to be you. I know it.” Sansa grabs the declaration from him again and starts to open it back up but he puts his hand over hers to stop it. 

“Sansa,” he says firmly, then moves his hand to her face, pulling her close so that she listens. “ _You_ are the Lady of Winterfell. The North is yours.” 

She stares at him, overcome with how beautiful he truly is. Then she places her hand on his, leaning into his touch as she had on their last night in the Quiet Isle, and sighs, “I love you.” 

Jon kisses her without having planned it, but the pull of her words puts it out of his control. Her hands move around his shoulder and suddenly she is wrapped around him, straddling his lap as the cloak covers them both. Jon deepens the kiss, pulling her closer, wanting to feel her heartbeat against his. But then she takes her lips away, leaning back to look into his eyes again. 

“Jon,” she says longingly, her delicate fingers stroking through his hair. “I want you to be my King, only you, now and always.” 

His grip on her tightens and he reaches for her lips again. She meets them with a fierce passion and when his tongue enters her mouth she lets the cloak fall away to the floor, and the letter with it. They press hard against each other, shaking with the love that threatens to burst from their skin in a rush of fire that devours them both. The only thing to do now is burn. 

Jon turns them, pressing her down on the bed as he ravishes her lips. Sansa wraps her arms and legs around him, bringing him closer, squeezing with all of the strength she’s ever known. She feels him harden and she starts to push, working his breeches down his legs with hers until she has kicked them from the bed. Then she secures herself around him again. 

They don’t stop. They hardly breathe. Jon couldn’t pull his lips from hers if he tried. He couldn’t even release his grasp around her back to stroke her body if he wanted to. Nothing that would put a breath of space between them is possible now. 

The edge of him finds the edge of her, and with no other truth known in this world, he pushes all the way in. 

He doesn’t move then, and neither does she, for they have nowhere else to go. At last they are one, joined in the depths of their souls, and all that has ever stood between them turns to ash within the flame. 

Then he feels her begin to stir in his arms and softly stroke her legs along the back of his thighs. He lifts his mouth from her and watches, her face trembling as his hips begin to shift back. He pulls out of her slowly, the sensation causing them both to convulse, and then he waits, just enough of him still inside to keep from breaking the touch completely. 

She whispers only one thing. “ _Jon_.” Then he lunges back into her with a force that makes her scream. 

He thrusts again, then again, stilling each time he reaches the furthest part of her. He wants to stay there forever and only moves out so that he can bring himself back in again. He needs it faster, to find his way back there sooner. Then he pushes harder, reaching into her more as he aches for even greater depths. 

Sansa cries out and drops her face to his shoulder, holding onto him with everything she has. The feel of him driving his force inside her, expanding all of her limits, takes her beyond any realm of existence she’s ever known. Her body courses with waves of pulsing ecstasy at every plunge. 

They plummet together, holding each other close as they descend into the abyss of madness, and then ride high again, soaring up into the heavens. The end is coming for them both, and they face it fearlessly as one. 

Sansa brings his gasping lips back to hers and fills her lungs with the breath of his life as Jon pushes harder, and faster still. Then she tightens in a long, pulsing detonation around him, and he calls out her name as his eruption drowns her from within. 

When it is over, the truth of what he’s done begin to sets in and Jon is flooded with guilt. He starts to move away but she pulls him closer, keeping him inside of her. 

“Don’t,” she whispers gently into his ear. 

He tries to argue, “Sansa,” but she stops him. 

“I know, Jon. It doesn’t matter now. Just stay with me, please.” 

He takes a heavy breath and kisses her softly, then lays himself down to rest in her and agrees, “No tomorrow.” 


	38. Moat Cailin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Battle wages at Moat Cailin

The vast green hill stretches out onto the edge of a steep cliff. The last time she was here, peering down at the murk and crumbling black stone, she’d learned of the plans for her second marriage. It was much quieter that day. The eerie ruin of the Moat was only a ghost hall then, held by no armies, and the cold, grimy trek through its passage was all that stood between her and home. But this is better. Battle and blood in the darkness of night means that they are taking it back, on their terms. She’d option for that over a quiet path into the jaws of a trap any day. Still, she is worried.

Sansa sits astride her horse on the cliff watching the scene below. Her eyes remain fixed on Jon, standing at the head of the formation lined up just at the end of the causeway. The black water all around sits undisturbed, without so much as a frog in sight. 

The Knights of the Vale and the Tully army had pushed forward while Jon and Tormund were away, beating back every scout and soldier in the Bolton army so that they are all garrisoned inside the stronghold now. The towers are lit up with braziers, torches, and soon, flaming arrows. The fires makes the structure appear as though it were the hideous countenance of the seven hells. 

 

“Sansa,” he addresses, far too familiar. 

Her hand twists around her reins and the movement pushes against the blade on her wrist as a comfort. He pulls his horse to a stall next to hers and she doesn’t need to look at him to know the four guards are close behind.

“Lord Baelish.”

They both stare down into the night, waiting for the war to commence. 

“He’s a formidable warrior, your brother.” Petyr’s voice is low and steady, speaking with the measured care she knows only too well now. “They say Moat Cailin is impossible to take from the south, that it can throw back forces ten times the size of the army holding it. I’ve no doubt this will be the night your brother changes that history.” 

She takes a deep breath. “What do you want?” 

“Only to apologize, my lady. The last time we stood astride one another atop this hill is a day I will suffer with regret until my dying breath.”

 _Perhaps I'll offer you your relief tonight,_ she thinks. “It doesn’t matter now.”

Sansa still won’t look at him and she knows it is beginning to frustrate him. She knows his game, and how he plays it. But she is playing her own game now, and they haven’t yet secured Winterfell so she will keep herself maintained.

“If I might ask,” he continues. _Ah, here it is._ “What is to be done with me, once the North is won?” 

“Done with you?”

“Execution, perhaps. Or will I be spending the rest of my years in black?”

“You’re not a prisoner, Lord Baelish.”

“No,” he agrees. “But I wonder if that might change once Jon Snow holds the seat of power he is seeking.” His use of Jon’s bastard name is not lost on her. “Or perhaps it will be you who passes the sentence. You are the Lady of Winterfell after all, and soon you'll be the Lady of the Vale as well.” 

Sansa knows what he wants, to sow conflict between her and Jon, but she won’t let him even try. “Are you confessing to a crime?” 

“Sansa–”

She looks at him now, with the fixed blaze of hatred she holds for the man, and it silences him again. He pleads to her with his eyes and it is so pathetic that she cringes. But then she composes herself again and looks back to the scene below. Jon’s strength as he stands bravely at the head of the soldiers carries up the cliff, surrounding her body and filling her heart.

“You could have had me, you know. When we left the Vale, I thought the marriage you were arranging was ours, and I would have gone along with it.” She scoffs a little. “I was actually relieved. After everything I’d already suffered, I stupidly believed that you wouldn’t hurt me. I would have even tried to love you, but I suppose you'd have just ruined that in the end, as well.”

“I made a terrible mistake. I underestimated a stranger.”

Sansa looks at him again, turning her horse slightly as if preparing to strike. “You said you would protect me.”

“I will. You must believe me that I will.”

“I don’t believe you anymore. I don’t _need_ you anymore.” The venom in her words is true, and she can see the recalculation start to spread across his face.

“No,” he says quietly, “only my armies.” The blaze in her flares, but he continues on in foolish pursuit. “Who will the North rally behind, once the war is over and winter comes? The true born daughter of Ned and Catelyn Stark, born at Winterfell, or a motherless bastard born in the South?”

Now she bears her teeth, the wolf in her ready to rip his throat out. “Jon will be King in the North once we return home. My brother named him as his heir before the man you sold me to betrayed him. Our family protects each other, and you would do well to remember that.”

She sees him flinch and realizes she has made a mistake, but she is too angry to let that concern her now. Besides, this man will soon meet his justice one way or another, even if she has to do it herself, here and now. 

“Robb fell in love with a woman when he was pledged to marry another,” Petyr reminds her ominously. “How many died because he broke that vow?” Sansa narrows her eyes, and they size each other up silently for a moment. Then he turns his view back to the armies and adds, “I do appreciate your decision to keep Lord Arryn safe until this battle is over, but I look forward to seeing my beloved stepson again once we journey north.”

Her rage hits its peak and she tightens her body for the charge, but then both their horse move back as a larger steed pushes between them. Sandor Clegane emerges and looks at her with warning, then his terrifying face regards the man he’s blocked from her view. 

“Perhaps you ought to return to camp,” he orders Littlefinger with a growl.

Baelish nods to him and says, “Keep her safe. I'd hate for any of those flaming arrows to reach the cliffs.” Then he rides away with the satisfaction of the flinch he gains from the Hound in return.

 

When he’s disappeared beyond the hill, Sandor turns to Sansa with a reprimanding scowl. “You shouldn’t be talking to him.”

“I’m not afraid of that coward,” she insists. Then he smiles at her, still doubting her estimation, but proud just the same.

“You’ve grown fierce, little bird. A true Stark, through and through.” 

She returns his smile, but before she can respond, the scene below catches her attention again. There is movement in the water, a darkness rising like a tide of demons emerging from the marsh. 

They both watch in silent awe as the dark figures swarm up the sides of the tower walls and in through the archways. The roar of screams carries up toward them as the fires start to die out, beginning from the highest windows and working downward. Then, as the siege of crannogmen works its way through, the Boltons begin to spew out from the mouth of the stronghold, charging down the causeway in a direct line toward Jon.

 

She gasps, holding her breath, as she sees the man who hold her heart unsheathe his magnificent weapon. He charges toward them, the first to strike, and begins cutting men down in a glorious dance of blood. The armies follow, channeling into the causeway to meet the other forces in a swell upon the narrow path. Jon and his men throw dead Boltons left and right into the black mud that surrounds them. 

The archers that managed to survive the attack from the walls start to emerge, loosing arrows blindly toward the crowded battle. She sees some of her own start to fall as the bodies pile up in the fight. But Jon is still standing, the gleam of his sword the point upon which her eyes remain locked. 

It is over before even a fraction of their armies can breech the entrance to the road. Tormund and the other crannogmen spill out of the gate, taking out men from behind, and she watches Jon finish the last few Boltons who have begun to yield. 

 

The terrifying gratification he gets from ending life after life is clear to her, even from this distance. Sansa watches in fascination as he drops one only to search in desperation for any others that might be left. Jon catches sight of a man running from the causeway toward the water, but he chases him into the murk. The man is dead with the first swing of Jon’s sword but he lifts it again and again, driving his anger down onto the body as it sinks beneath the shallow grave of the swamp. 

“Do you remember what you once told me about my father?” Sansa asks quietly into the night. “You said he was a killer, that he enjoyed it. You told me killing is the sweetest thing there is.”

“I shouldn’t have said that to you,” he answers shamefully as they both continue to watch below. “You were only a child.”

“You were right,” she states calmly. “The world is built by killers, but I’ve grown used to looking at them by now.”

“You’ve got quite a few on your side, it seems to me.”

“Yes, I do.” Sansa looks at him and he returns her glance with concern. “Perhaps I’ll get to taste that sweet pleasure for myself someday.”

Sandor considers her for a moment with renewed appreciation for all she’s been through and survived. He can see the strength of a soldier where a scared little girl once was, and it makes him smile. “I hope you do, little bird. I only pity the poor wretch who falls first at your hands.”

“Maybe it will be my husband,” she answers coldly, and then looks back to the carnage below. 

“I’d pay good money to see that.” 

 

Jaime remains at the border of the camp, watching in the direction of the cliff, with Brienne at his side. 

“She’s safe with him,” Brienne assures. She knows the order Bran gave him to protect Sansa during the battle has him more worried than he will let on. “He’s a good man.”

“You didn’t know him like I did,” Jaime cautions.

“Sansa trusts him.” He glances at her with doubt but she continues, “Anyway, what madness would possess him to try something with her here, surrounded by armies and guards?”

He sighs, knowing she is right, but the edge in him remains. “I’m going to take a piss,” he announces discourteously, and then marches off into the woods. Brienne notices that he heads in a direction that puts less distance between him and the cliff, and she smiles with appreciation for his efforts.

 

As Jaime makes his way into the woods he picks a tree to defile that gives him a clear view of Sansa and her companion. They remain at each other’s side in stillness, watching the war below. He sighs and looks down as he stuffs himself back into his breeches with his only hand, and then something on the ground catches his eye. 

He crouches and picks it up, realizing the small wad is a message as he unfolds it to read, “Jon named King in the North.”

Jaime looks around, but the woods are empty. Then he starts to walk back toward camp and hears a slight gasp from behind a tree. With the quickness of a snake he pulls the hidden figure into his fist, a small boy that must be no older than eight. 

“Who are you,” Jaime orders viciously. The boy cowers in fear but he doesn’t relent. “You need to understand something, boy. I have no issue with murdering a child, and you wouldn’t be the first. Now tell me, were you sent to retrieve this message?” 

The boy is shaking now and he nods silently as his eyes remain wide as the sky. 

“Who wrote it,” the looming knight demands. His grip tightens around the boy’s collar and he whimpers.

“L…Littlefinger,” the child confesses, and Jaime drops his hold with the shock. Before he can order him to reveal the intended recipient, the boy runs away in a flash. Jaime looks around in a quick search, and then reads the words again. Anger fills him and he returns to the camp at a murderous pace. 

 

“What is it?” Brienne begs immediately upon seeing Jaime’s face. But he stalks past her without a word and she follows in haste. 

He enters a tent, flaring the canvass behind him, and when she reaches the entrance she sees him with Littlefinger’s throat already in his grasp.

“Ser Jaime,” she shouts at the scene before her, still not understanding what has happened.

“This traitor has been sending messages to the enemy,” Jaime tells her as the life begins to slip from his victim’s eyes. 

Brienne fills with rage now as well. “Which enemy?” She moves closer, as Jaime begins to lower Baelish to his knees. The weight of him must be growing as his body loses the ability to support himself on his feet. “Ser Jaime!” she calls in sudden caution. “You can’t kill him.”

He looks at her then as if she’s betrayed him, but the measured restraint on her face brings him to his senses and he releases the strangle at last. The guards that were posted outside his tent enter and look at the gasping man now writhing on the ground.

“Put him in chains,” Jaime commands before exiting the tent with Brienne. 

 

When they reach a safe distance, Brienne sees Sansa and Clegane are approaching them. The calm on their faces tells her the battle has ended in victory, but the peace melts into expressions of concern when they take in the scene. 

Sansa dismounts and rushes to Brienne as Clegane watches the guards pull their captive from his tent. “What happened?” she urges and Jaime hands her the note.

“I found this in the woods, along with a boy who was meant to find it. It seems Lord Baelish has been passing information through to Cersei.”

Sansa gasps as she reads the message and then whips around to stare at the man now being chained to a post. Then she looks back at Jaime and asks, “How do you know it was going to Cersei?”

“After Varys fled the country, my sister took over his network of spies. His little birds, he called them. They were all children, little gutter rats that nobody would give a second look to as they gathered information for the Master of Whispers.” Jaime glares back toward the man now sneering at them in defeat. 

Sansa looks at Brienne now and the rage they both share is communicated in audible breaths. Then she turns to Sandor who is standing at the ready with his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Give the order,” he says to her without taking his eyes from the prisoner. “Unless you’d like to take care of this one yourself.”

The idea of it fills her with desire, but there is something more pressing to address. She turns back to Brienne and Jaime ordering, “Keep close to him, and don’t let him out of your sight. I need to speak with Sandor about what other information he might’ve gathered during their journey north.”

“ _Sansa,_ ” she hears the vile creature choke out to her from his restraints. 

She doesn’t even glance in his direction as she calls out after the knights now making their furious approach. “And gag him!”


	39. Clean

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa find healing in each other.

By the time Jon returns to camp, he is exhausted. Pulling the bodies from the Moat and stacking them on dry land to be burned in the morning had taken longer than the battle itself. As he nears the center of the encampment he sees the tall blonde figures of Brienne and Jaime, and then sees who is chained to a post between them. 

“Where is she?” he demands of the knights upon approach, though his eyes remain fixed on Littlefinger. 

“Your sister is safe,” Jaime assures immediately. “I found this one attempting to pass information to the Queen.” 

Jon glares at the man so perfectly positioned to meet his boot, but then turns his murderous glance to Brienne and demands again, “Where is she?”

“She is waiting for you in your tent, my lord, under heavy guard.”

“Why aren’t _you_ guarding her?”

“Lady Sansa ordered me and Ser Jaime to stay with the prisoner.” 

Jon storms off without another word. As he makes his way to his tent at the far end of the field, he sees twenty Knights of the Vale posted around it in a wide perimeter. Ten more are posted closer yet. When he works through those, he sees Podrick Payne emerging from within the canvas. 

Pod nearly runs face first into the bloodied mess of a commander as he makes his way out of the fortified shelter, gasping and tripping backward slightly when he sees him. 

“What are you doing?” Jon asks of the squire.

“Lady Brienne asked me to stand guard outside your door,” he stammers nervously.

“But you _weren’t_ outside the door,” Jon points out, his blood still hot from both the battle and discovering the safety of his camp had been compromised. 

“She asked me to fetch hot water for you, my lord.” Podrick straightens a little in facing the warrior now. “Lady Sansa is waiting for you inside.”

Jon nods at him, and then enters the tent without another question.

Sansa sits quietly in the chair by his writing desk. Her hands are folding in her lap and her eyes remain gently fixed on the candle standing beside her. Jon notices a wash tub has been brought into the space, and steam is still rising from the water within it. All that has happened over the past few hours is coursing through him still, and he closes his eyes for a moment in an attempt to slow it all down. He wishes she would look at him, as she is so much better at helping him find his way. 

“Are you alright?” he asks in a quiet, yet frightened voice. 

She turns to him then, finally, only it doesn’t bring him any comfort. Her eyes stare at him in disbelief and he starts to think she may burst into tears. But then, she laughs. She laughs so hard and so long that Jon starts to wonder if she has gone mad. He goes to her and kneels at her feet, watching cautiously as she starts to gather her breath enough to speak.

“Jon,” she says at last. “I just watched you lead an army into battle and kill hundreds of men.” He looks down, not knowing what to say, but then she touches his dirty face and says, “And yet you are asking _me_ if I’m alright?” 

He returns his eyes to hers and finds comfort at last. “But Littlefinger-”

“Let’s not talk about him now.” 

Jon thinks about arguing but her eyes and her touch are too beautiful to meet with any defiance. He sighs and starts to lean toward her but then she stops him, placing a gentle hand on his chest. 

“You need a bath,” she tells him with a knowing smile. He returns it and looks down at himself, only just realizing how covered he is in the filth of their enemies.

Sansa stands, taking him by the hand, and he rises to his feet. Then, like a seasoned squire, she removes his sword and leather armor, piece by piece, as he watches her careful movements. He lifts his arms for her as she pulls his tunic over his head, and then takes a breath, holding it as she leans down to remove his muddied boots. Sansa remains on her knees as her hands lift up to his breeches, and when she lowers them he has the fleeting instinct to cover himself out of respect. 

He has never felt so naked, standing before her in silence as she undresses him slowly. Then she stands again, taking his hand as she leads him to the bath. His body feels the pain of battle for the first time that night as he lowers himself into the water. His aching arms stretch out along the sides of the bath and he sinks in, feeling the heat spread across his skin in a soothing salve. 

The world is so quiet. Jon closes his eyes and sees the images of death all around him, he hears the screams of frightened men meeting his sword. But he doesn’t want to be there, so he opens his eyes again and sees only her. The only sound comes as she lifts a cloth, trickling water from it into the bowl by her side, before she brings it softly to his chest. 

He watches her quietly as she begins to cleanse him. She makes slow, concentrated passes over his arms, his chest, his back, and then his face, memorizing every bruise starting to darken on his pale skin. Then she runs the cloth along his bent legs and between them, bathing every part of him, rough and smooth alike. She even takes gentle care to wash his feet. 

When she has finished with his body, she presses lightly on his shoulder, a silent instruction for him to lean back. Jon feels her untie the leather cord from his hair and it falls loose. Then she lifts a pitcher and streams water down over his soiled head, letting it fall into the shallow basin below. Her hands glide over his scalp, loosening the dried blood and dirt with her delicate fingers, washing away the ghosts of his war. 

His eyes stay fixed on her, and when she pulls through his hair her face is so close to his that he longs to reach up and kiss her. But then she stands, offering her hand to him, and he rises again letting the cold night air pour over his clean body as he follows her toward the bed. 

Sansa lifts a soft, dry sheet from where she’d left it folded on the bed. Then she wraps him in it, moving her hands over his body once again as she completes her ritual of care. 

When she has finished, he pulls her to him at last, wrapping her in the sheet with him as his arms close around her in a tight embrace. She lays her head on his shoulder, pressing her beautiful face against his neck, and holds him against her with her hands spread wide across the hard strain of his back. 

Jon takes a deep breath, lifting her body with his, and then releases it slowly and whispers, “I love you, Sansa.”

Her hands pull him closer and he can feel her lips begin to move against his skin. She doesn’t speak, though. The silent words she gives him come in the brush of her tongue along his neck, and her kiss sends a current of warmth through the pulse of his veins. Her mouth pulls in more of his flesh, sucking softly as she moves around his throat to capture his other side. 

Jon’s body begins to stiffen, from his aching muscles, to his raw skin, through the desperate grasp of his hands clinging to her and the rushing desire that fills his cock. 

“We can’t,” he chokes out quietly as her lips move to edge of his jaw. She nuzzles against his beard, set on her own mission, but he cautions again. “It’s not safe with so many people around.”

Sansa silences his protests then as she brings her lips to his ear and whispers, “Then you’ll need to be quiet.” His mouth opens wordlessly and she finds it with her own, gliding her tongue slowly across the length of his in an alluring request before he finally breaks from his trance and meets her movements. 

The kiss deepens and Jon moves his hands down her back, holding her ass in his grip as he pulls her hips hard against his own. The sheet around them falls as his hold on it is traded for material of her dress, and he starts to lift it as she continues to push deeper into his mouth. 

Then Sansa moves away, looking at him with calm objection as she lowers her touch to stop him. Jon’s face falls slightly as she pulls his grip away from her skirt, leaving his hands to hang empty by his side. But then she moves her lips back to his and the intoxication of her fills his body once again.

He feels her fingers meet the skin on his thighs, tracing up along his hips to his waist and then his ribs. Her hands spread over him, smoothing across his chest as she presses carefully with her fingers along each ridged wound as she goes. He tries to touch her again, but each time his hands find her body she pulls them away, building frustration and then easing it with the increase of her own touch against him. 

Sansa moves her hands to his shoulders, following the path with her lips as she paints slowly across his collar with kisses. His breath gets heavier and his body starts to shake with the pain of this pleasure. Her hands explore him more, gliding back down his hard chest as her fingertips tease over his nipples, followed closely by her trailing mouth.

When her tongue presses against the sensitive skin, his hands lift again automatically, pushing against her back with a fierce need. She ends the suckle at once, looking up at his begging face and says firmly, “Stop it, Jon.” He wants to cry, but then dutifully lowers his hands again.

Sansa puts her mouth back on his body and begins to lower her hand. Her touch glides down his stomach and then finally meets his aching cock, gripping him gently to offer a few merciful strokes of relief. But then, in the continued give and take of her attention, her hand leaves him and he groans with desperation as his eyes and fists close in a tight clench against the torture. 

He feels the cold night invade him again as the warmth of her abandons him and he stands in the lonely defeat of darkness, unable to look at her for fear of losing control over the restriction she’s demanded. He takes a few heavy breaths, trying to ease the hateful pain that courses through him without her touch. 

Then suddenly, without any warning, a cry of agony spills from his throat as the wet heat of her mouth wraps fully around his cock. He gasps for air, frozen in a moment of delusion, lost to the world around him without knowing how to find his way back.

When he is able to pry his eyes open again, he is looking down at her on her knees, unable to comprehend the sight below him. He tries to say her name, but a sharp hiss is all he can manage as her lips tighten and her tongue begins to glide along his pulsing skin. 

Her hand moves to him again, pulling him further into her mouth and he can no longer maintain his restraint. His hands capture her, wrapping around the back of her head as his fingers grip into the soft waves of hair falling down her back. Her movements still, and he softens his hold, but cannot pull away entirely. This seems to satisfy her though, and she resumes the thrusting pressure of her mouth. 

All of his reason abandons him, leaving his body and mind entirely under her command. He holds her as gently as he can as she begins to quicken the pace of her mouth, pulling him dangerously close to the edge. He begs his voice to come back to him, gaping his mouth in an attempt to force it through. But all that he can release is a desperate moan of warning. She pushes him in further and it is almost too late, so he drops his hands to her shoulders and tries to push her away, but she throws his hands from her again and pulls him to the back of her throat.

Jon cries out in broken sobs of shame as his seed pushes free in unrelenting streams that drive into her abyss. He falls forward, catching himself on her back as she coaxes the last of his sin into her mouth, emptying him completely of his honor with her final swallows. 

When she finally pulls his spent body from her mouth, he looks away as she lifts herself to her feet once again. Then she takes his hand, guiding him quietly to the bed and they lay down silently as she covers them in the warmth of the soft furs. She wraps her arms around his neck, pulling his face to her shoulder as she whispers to him that it’s okay and Jon lifts his shaking hands around her back. 

They lay in each other’s arms, releasing the pain from their past. Sansa presses her forehead to his and kisses him softly, pushing a tear off his cheek with her gentle touch. Finally, she asks quietly, “Jon, what’s wrong? Why are you crying?” 

He looks at her and the shame in his eyes breaks her heart. “I can't,” he begins slowly and she moves her hand to his heart to ease his pain. “I don’t think I could survive losing you.”

She smiles gently at him and says, “You’re not going to lose me, I’m right here.”

Jon closes his eyes and squeezes the hand she has resting on his heart. “You don’t understand,” he whispers so quietly he hopes she can’t hear. Then he sits up, pulling away from her touch at last. 

Sansa watches him with concern, lifting herself to face him, but he turns away. “Jon, please.” He is starting to scare her and she moves a little closer. “Talk to me. Tell me what it is. Did I do something wrong?”

“No,” he promises instantly, but he still can’t look at her as he speaks. “Sansa, I’ve… I’ve done things I can never take back. If I ever hurt you, I’d…” but he can’t finish. The shame is too heavy and he just sighs, shaking his head. 

She takes a deep breath as she straightens herself further, and when she speaks again the pain in her voice pulls his eyes to her at last. “Jon, you need to listen to me. You have never done anything that I didn’t want.” He flinches, but before he can respond she continues furiously. “I get to decide what hurts me, not you, do you understand?” 

He reaches for her then, wanting desperately to soothe her tears too, but she pulls away. “I did this tonight because I wanted to,” she insists, wiping her face for herself. “Because I love you, and I wanted to touch you. I-" She stops suddenly, and takes another deep breath to calm herself. 

Jon waits, watching her carefully as she gathers her thoughts. When her voice returns to him, it is steady, needing him to hear every word. "You can’t begin to know what it feels like to be made to do the things I was. To have my _entire_ body taken from me until there was nothing left. I have been forced to my knees before, Jon. More times than I could count. This wasn't supposed to be... I just wanted something different."

“Sansa,” he begs her softly, his heart breaking into pieces. “I know, my sweet girl. Of _course_ I know that." He takes a deep breath and when he reaches for her again she doesn’t pull away. Jon takes her trembling hand in his and brings it to his lips, pressing soft kisses against her fingers. “That wasn't what I meant at all. I’m sorry, my love. I’m so sorry.” 

She lowers to head to his chest and brings their grasp to rest against his heart. Jon wraps his other hand around her back and strokes her softly as she begins to relax again in his arms. Then they are quiet again, both trying to hold onto each other as they make their way through this pain. 

Finally, he speaks again, and tells her the truth of it all. He tells her about Melisandre, about the conversation they’d had the night before their ship was attacked. He tells her what she’d said to him, and how he was too much of a coward to face the truth of his feelings. Then he tells her what happened next, how the darkness took hold and he’d used her to rid himself of the shame. Only it hadn’t worked.

“It’s my fault,” he whispers into the night. Sansa has grown frighteningly still against his body, but she doesn’t pulled away so he continues. “I didn’t look for her, not really. Davos thought she disappeared before the attack, but only because when he tried to find her earlier she was with me. I was actually _relieved_ when she wasn’t on the boat with us to escape. I let myself blame her, with no other reason than I wanted it to absolve me from having to face what I had done. And now he has her, he’s torturing her day and night, all because of me.”

When he finishes, he closes his eyes and takes a breath, ready to face whatever comes next. He knows it is the least he can do now. But Sansa stays quiet and motionless in his arms. He waits, but then the silence becomes too much and he starts to ask her to say something. Only, before he can, she lifts herself to him and places a gentle kiss against his lips. Then she holds him, and whispers her loving promise. 

“We’ll get her out of there, Jon. It’s going to be alright.”


	40. The Traitor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa deals with Littlefinger.

When Jon starts to snore, Sansa leaves him. Exiting his tent, she sees Podrick standing guard at a respectful distance and the knights further still. He nods and gives her a comforting smile that she returns as she passes.

She makes her way back to the center of the camp and sees Brienne and Jaime at their posts. “I’d like to speak with the traitor,” she informs them.

Brienne gives her a wary glance but then steps aside to allow her address. “Shall I remove his gag,” she asks dutifully.

“That won’t be necessary.” 

Sansa glares down at Littlefinger with callous indifference, then addresses him formerly. “I’m afraid you’ve made a critical mistake, Lord Baelish. You see, I've learned a great deal from my many captors over the years, including you. But the Boltons… well, if I’m to believe that you weren’t aware of their... traditions, then I suppose you will be enlightened soon enough. If you did know, then I’m sure you understand your position.” 

Sansa moves her hand beneath her sleeve and reveals the weapon that Brienne had provided her. Crouching slightly, she brings the blade to rest upon his cheek, pressing just enough to draw a spot of blood.

“Can you feel it, my lord? My blade is sharp.” 

Petyr looks at her with pitiful regret as he nods, and Sansa sees his eyes beginning to water. She waits, just staring into his eyes now with all of the hatred he's placed into her heart, until she knows that he understands. It is merely a threat, but she's learned to play this game so well by now that she starts to believe herself capable. She starts to feel the desire for it fill her until it is truth. He looks as if he may vomit with fear and it pleases her. 

“Good.” She stands tall once again, replacing her dagger into its leather sheath. Brienne watches her cautiously, but Sansa keeps her eyes focused on her mark.

“I’d like to know exactly what information you have passed along through your little birds, as well as anything else you may have been planning for me or my family. You have until the morning to decide how many of your little fingers you’d like to keep intact. I do hope that the evening proves reflective. Sleep well.” 

 

***

 

“There’s people coming,” Arya hisses. She is keeping watch, bent slightly as she peers through the gaps in the crumbling stone of their fortress. It is a small hovel in the center of Seagard, abandoned like all of the other once-thriving structures since Euron Greyjoy had pillaged the city. 

Arya narrows her eyes on the approaching figures, both dressed in long leather coats the color of iron. Her eyes glaze over for just a moment, before they focus sharply again. 

“You can finish later, there’s people coming!” 

Gendry stands from the kneeling position he’d assumed behind her and Arya pulls up her breeches. 

They crouch out of site behind the stone wall. As they two strangers enter within ear shot, Arya looks over at Gendry who is wiping his mouth and she signals for him to be quiet. Then she listens, and hears a woman’s voice speaking first.

“He’s taken everything. The food, the women. How many ships could he have by now?”

“A thousand maybe.”

Arya’s gut lurches when she hears the voice of Theon Greyjoy.

“He’s been gone for a while it looks like,” the woman assesses. “The bodies in the castle having been rotting for months.”

“He could have left a crew behind to keep guard,” Theon warns. “Like the one they sent after us on the Green Fork.”

“There’s no ship,” she replies. “I don’t think he’d waste the men.”

Arya can hear that they are facing away from the wall, so she slowly lifts herself to peak through again. Gendry gives her a panicked look, but makes no move to stop her. 

Theon and the woman are looking out across the water, the castle of Seagard just beyond them in the distance. 

“Do you think he made it to Meereen?” Theon asks. 

“It doesn’t matter now,” she replies. “We should go back to Pyke. Euron took his fleet, and probably every able-bodied man from here to the Iron Islands with him. Our people need a ruler.”

Theon looks around and Arya thinks he might look in her direction, but then he turns back toward the sea and sighs.

“What is it?” the woman asks, and Arya senses her irritation.

“We’ll likely be killed before we make it to land.” It isn’t an argument, but defeated concession. But the woman looks at him with suspicion.

“You’re still worried about her, aren’t you? She was heading north, and she was surrounded by knights.” The woman’s frustration is also consoling in a strange way. Arya finds her curiosity is distracting from her calculations for attack.

“But Jon wasn’t with her,” Theon points out. He is shaken, but now Arya is too. “Why was she coming from the South? If-”

“Theon, we’ve been over this. Sansa Stark is not your responsibility anymore. You saved her,” she begins, but Theon turns on her with anger.

“I didn’t.”

“You helped her escape, do you hear me? _You_ escaped. And you’re never going back.”

Theon sighs, lowering his head in shame. Arya watches him, the boy she knew as a brother for so many years. The man who’d betrayed her family in the end. There is so much she doesn’t understand happening in front of her that she falters for a split second when he suddenly turns directly toward her, and she knows their eyes met before she hides behind the wall once again.

_Shit._

They are quiet now, but Arya can feel them approaching. She looks to Gendry with eyes that let him know it too, and they both ready their weapons. 

***

 

Jon wakes to a burning hunger in his gut and remembers he hasn’t eaten anything since the morning before. He looks around, but Sansa is gone and the memories of the night come back to him in fragmented order. First the war, and then her mouth. But finally, Littlefinger. 

He pulls on his clothes in such a hurry that he almost forgets to strap on his sword, but then he turns to where Sansa had laid it carefully against the writing desk. As he fastens his belt he notices the letter from Robb is resting on the top of his pile of battle plans as though it were just one more strategic note. 

Jon sighs, and glances down at the words, but then leaves it there and returns to the task of finding his sister.

As he approaches the center of camp, he sees Littlefinger sleeping on the ground against his post, with Jaime and Brienne still standing guard. He wants to go closer, to get the details of what happened now that his mind is clearer, but first he needs to find her. 

Brienne sees him and nods toward the war council tent at the opposite end of camp. Jon again feels guilty for his harshness toward her last night, but all he can offer her now is a returning nod. 

Entering the tent, the sight before him takes him by surprise. Sansa is seated in the center of the group, with Brynden and Clegane flanking her sides. Davos is directly across from her with Tormund, and Royce is standing in the corner. _She looks like a queen,_ he thinks. _Or a general._

Sansa looks up at Jon first, and then the rest follow her glance. “Good morning,” she states calmly, with a slight smile that Jon knows is meant to soothe him from the uninformed rage with which he’d started the day.

Tormund stands, giving Jon his seat at the table, and offers a light, yet bruising pat on his shoulder as he takes it.

Brynden pours him a mug of ale and slide a plate of food toward him. “Hell of a scrap,” he acknowledges, and Jon nods at his fellow soldier. Tormund and Brynden had taken as many lives as he had last night, if not more. And Jon knows they’d both lost some of their own in the fight. Royce was not in the infantry, but he’d lost men as well. None of these soldiers are Northerners, none of them Brothers of the Night’s Watch, and the sacrifice they made for his family is not lost on him.

“The Knights of the Vale, the Crannogmen, and the Tullys all fought bravely together,” Jon announces, lifting his mug. The rest join and there is a moment of silence shared for the fallen as Jon looks to each of them one by one before they drink. 

He sees Sansa wince slightly at the taste of her sip, while the Hound empties his cup and pours more. “And more importantly,” Jon continues, “my sister was kept safe from harm while the fighting took place.” Clegane looks at him with a warning not to toast him, and so Jon moves on. “But it seems we have a threat to deal with all the same.”

Jon turns his eyes directly to Sansa now, and begins to notice that the state of unconcerned calm surrounding him doesn’t quite fit. She stares at him cautiously, yet with a confidence that tells him he’s missed something important. “What?” 

“Lady Sansa has… _addressed_ the issue of Lord Baelish already,” Davos tells him. “She was just waiting on you to give us the details.”

Jon looks at him, and then at the others. Davos is cautious as usual, and Tormund shares a strange smirk with Brynden. The Hound is just eating, but Royce looks as though he is politely coping with a bad taste in his mouth. When he turns back to Sansa, Jon sees the warning he recognizes as meant exclusively for him. He reminds himself to relax his brow and waits quietly for her explanation.

“We’ve come to learn that Lord Baelish has been passing information to Queen Cersei, ever since we left the Quiet Isle.” She waits a moment for his reaction.

“You should have let me kill him,” he growls. Jon begins imagining all of the ways he’ll enjoy making the man suffer. “He’s a traitor, so now it won’t be murder. It will be justice.”

“If you wish. But Lord Baelish and I have come to a new understanding,” she explains calmly. “With your permission, I’d like to send him with a guard to King’s Landing. Today.”

“For what?” Jon’s curiosity is starting to build, but he is still concerned. 

“I’ve instructed him to continue passing information along to the queen, only now it will be the information I’ve provided him as a diversion. The guards are to make sure he remembers his lines.”

Jon thinks about this for a moment. He’d still rather kill the man, but is in awe of Sansa’s strategic force. His worry continues to be relentless, though. He understands by now that Sansa knows how to play this game better than he does, but that doesn’t stop him from questioning every angle.

“Isn’t it too risky?” he asks. “You know him, he always finds a way to twist the plans in his favor. Don’t you think this will be the same? Cersei could kill the guards as soon as they enter the Red Keep and then take Baelish back under her command. What if Baelish gives her more information?”

Sansa just shakes her head, “She’s been informed of your movements up the King’s Road, as well as my remaining behind in the Vale. She knows the crannogmen joined us, and that the Freys are dead, as well as who killed them.” Jon fumes at this and finds himself wishing Arya would hurry back.

“She knows I am with you again and that the battle was to take place last night. She knows how many men we have, how many the Boltons had, the houses that have joined him and those who haven’t. She knows our intentions to siege Winterfell, how quickly we will be arriving, where Bran and Robin will be once we move North, and where they are now. She knows everything already.” Sansa finishes and waits for Jon to take it all in.

“How do you know all of this,” he asks quietly. Jon is clearly nervous about hearing the answer but Sansa remains silent. It is Clegane that offers the grave clarity.

“If I were you, I’d think twice before trying to cross this one,” he says with a proud nod of his head in her direction. “And I thought Arya was the terrifying one.”

Jon looks back at her confused and even more concerned, but she remains steady in her wary glance. “My lords,” he addresses calmly without takes his eyes from her, “I’d like to speak with my sister alone.”

“Come on lads,” Tormund booms energetically. “It’s time to wake these sleeping boys and get ready to head out. I only got a taste of Bolton blood last night, and the sooner I get to feast on the rest, the better.”

The men leave them and Sansa moves to sit next to him at the table. Jon starts to question her, but she takes his hand in hers and holds it gently. Despite himself, he finds comfort in her touch and pulls her into a silent kiss before continuing with his priorities. 

“What happened?” he begs softly when their lips have parted again. 

Sansa looks down at their hands folded together and he watches as she pulls back the sleeve of her dress to reveal the blade. 

Jon releases his hand from hers and the grabs her wrist, pulling up the sleeve further to examine to the weapon. “Where did you get this?” he questions.

“Brienne had it made for me before we left the Vale,” she tells him. Then she pulls the thin dagger from its leather sheath and hands it to him. “My mother had one like it that she would wear inside her cuff.”

Jon takes a closer look at the fine steel, and notices a few drops of dried blood still staining the tip. He looks at her again with a pleading gaze. “Sansa,” he whispers, but she takes her weapon back and looks at it herself.

“It’s alright Jon,” she promises. “I didn’t have to do much.” She puts the blade away and then slides her sleeve back into place, the picture of a proper lady once again. 

Sansa returns her eyes to him and he can see something he never has before, only he isn’t sure quite what it is. Then she explains to him how she’d threatened Littlefinger with flaying. Jon’s stomach starts to tighten but she rests a firm hand on his knee.

“I was never going to do it, not _really_ anyway.” She is trying to reassure him, but Jon still has his doubts. “I know Littlefinger. He’s always been a coward when it comes to any real physical threat. So, I just had to prove that I was capable.”

Jon lifts an eyebrow of interrogation, but Sansa stands, and walks across the tent away from him. He can see that she is wringing her hands, nervous for the first time since the conversation began.

“What is it?” he asks. It isn’t even possible for him to imagine what she might have done, but her methods are not what she confesses.

“There’s more,” she warns before turning around to face him again. “Ser Jaime found a note he was trying to pass to Cersei during the battle. He knows you were named as Robb heir.”

“How could he know that?” Jon is confused. He knows where the letter is, and it isn’t possible that Littlefinger was able to breech the guard around his tent. Or is it? The question of what is possible has long since been one he’s learned to expect answered with more than he thought. 

Sansa closes her eyes and he can see that she feels ashamed. “I’m sorry,” she whispers, and Jon begins to understand. He looks at her needing a reason and she pleads, “Before the battle started... he spoke to me. I knew all he wanted was information, so I tried not to let him manipulate me, and to learn of his intentions instead. But he made me angry enough to let it slip, I’m sorry.” 

Her fury with herself starts to show as her crossed arms begin to shake. Jon goes to her, pulling her face against his chest as he soothes his hands down her back. 

“It’s alright, my love.” Jon tries to subdue his own anger now. He isn’t upset with Sansa, but wishes more than ever that he could inflict pain upon the man who has systematically made her life hell. “I wish you’d let me kill him,” he whispers.

Sansa looks at him then, and her eyes have started to water. Jon puts his hand on her cheek to catch a falling tear. “Is there anything else he said?”

She pushes her face back to his chest, but says nothing, only lets him hold her.


	41. Revelations

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa reveals the rest of her plan to Jon, and Arya faces Theon.

Yara charges through the door first with Theon close behind. Inside, though, there is no waiting guard of Ironborn soldiers. Only a man and a boy. 

“Who are you?” Yara demands. 

The man looks to the boy for guidance who says, “My name is Arry. This is my brother, Clovis. Who are you?”

Yara looks from the small sword in the boy’s hand, to the large hammer held by the man. Then she looks to Theon, who gives her a warning look meant to communicate that they shouldn’t reveal who they are.

“The city is abandoned, so why are you here?” Yara continues, her own sword held at the ready.

“Traveling through,” the boy answers. Yara looks to the man and wonders why he is letting the child speak for them. Something isn’t right. She moves closer to him and Theon comes around her to hold his sword on the boy.

“Where are you going?” she asks the man directly.

Gendry looks to Arya but Yara closes in a little further and he looks back to her. “North,” he replies vaguely. 

Yara narrows her eyes threateningly. “Why?” 

“To… to join the war effort,” Gendry confesses. He tries to avoid giving any more information than he has to, but he knows outright lying would catch him up more quickly. He isn’t as good at this, and wishes Arya would take over before they are forced to fight. He doesn’t relish the idea of smashing his hammer down on a woman. 

“Who do you fight for?” Theon asks, glaring at the boy who seems to hold a personal glint of hatred in his eyes. 

“The Tullys of Riverrun,” Arya replies quickly. “Our mother died after the soldiers left, giving birth to our sister. She died too. We're on our own now, so we decided to join the army instead of starving on the street.”

Theon looks back at Yara who returns the glance. But then Arya presses on, catching everyone’s attention.

“We saw your ship. Would you take us north?”

“We’re not going north,” Yara replies quickly, but Theon flinches and Arya takes notice. 

“Are you Ironborn?” she asks, intentionally drawing her eyes down to the kraken on Theon’s breastplate. “We heard they raided this city.”

“That wasn’t us,” Theon defends with too much haste. 

Arya lifts her chin slightly, not allowing herself to smile at the victory of her own skill. “Then why are you here,” she continues. Her eyes remain fixed to interpret every twitch in Theon’s expression, every shift in his breath. 

He’s giving it all up so easily, but the change in him is still jarring. The Theon she knew was a cocky little prince, stupid but proud. The man standing before her though, he could be a total stranger. The way he submits to this woman's lead, the sunken skin beneath his eyes, eyes that hold so much fear facing only a small boy, none of it is what she knew of him before. _Bolton broke him._ Suddenly, Arya feels the strange sensation of pity run through her, followed quickly by a distant thought of her sister.

“We're going back to the Iron Islands,” Yara responds. "We learned Seagard was ravaged and wanted to see if there was anyone left."

“You gonna kill us?” Gendry asks suddenly, and all attention now turns to him. Arya sees him tighten his grip on his hammer, but then she looks at his face and knows he doesn’t want this fight.

Yara lowers her weapon, and Theon follows suit. 

“No,” the woman replies honorably. “But it isn’t safe here. You two should move on as soon as possible. If I were you, I’d head back to Riverrun. The fight in the North is no place for children.” 

Gendry begins to say something in his defense but Arya interrupts with, “We’ll be going.”

Arya replaces her sword in its scabbard and closes the distance between her and Gendry, pulling him by the arm. Gendry still watches Yara closely as they move toward the door, but then Theon grabs the handle of the hammer, and Gendry turns to him with fury. 

Theon drops his hold, now looking at the man more closely. “If you’re from Riverrun, why does your hammer have Baratheon antlers?” 

Yara moves closer, examining the weapon herself, noticing it has the reversed Baratheon colors as well. Gendry looks to Arya, with an expression that requires no assassin training to reveal that they have been caught. Theon and Yara look back at the boy, waiting for his response as well.

She sighs and backs away from the group, all of whom are now gripping their weapons defensively again. Slowly, she touches her face, pulling on the skin and ripping it off to reveal the truth.

Yara stares silently, a look of terrified disgust frozen on her face. Gendry remains still and ready with his massive hammer in both hands. Theon drops is sword.

 

***

 

Sansa and Jon sit mounted on their horses beside each other, watching the fire start to rise high behind the Moat. The smell of burning flesh fills the air as the last few soldiers cross through the gates and pass them with dutiful nods. Then they turn and begin riding north. 

“Jon,” she begins as their horses remain close together. “I need to tell you something.”

He looks at her, concerned as always when she begins with these words. Sansa glances back at him for a moment, but then returns her gaze to the road.

“There was something else Littlefinger said to me. Not when I was questioning him this morning, but last night.” She lowers her head for a moment and then looks to Jon again. “I think he knows about us.”

Jon takes a sharp breath, and his horse comes to a stop. The armies push forward ahead and Sansa pulls back as well so they can speak alone. 

“What did he say, exactly?” Jon demands through clenched teeth.

“It was after I’d told him about Robb naming you his heir. I thought he was trying to create a divide between us.” Sansa looks ashamed and adds, “He said the North should support me, a true-born daughter rather than a bastard." Jon flinches at the word and Sansa tries to explain her failing. "It just made me so furious, and so I let it slip out that you're the rightful king. But I was wrong. He was trying to understand what we meant to each other, and I played right into his hands.”

Sansa shakes her head in frustration, but Jon can’t help feeling warmed by her defense of him. He still sees her as his better, in more ways than one. He hasn’t revealed his intentions for after they retake Winterfell, knowing that he may very well die in the battle. Still, Jon never intended to call himself King. Regardless of whether his brother’s words would hold any legitimacy with the Lords of the North, or any other powers within the realm for that matter, Jon knows that Winterfell belongs to her. 

“So, what makes you think he knows about us?” he asks doubtfully. 

Nothing she has told him so far would give him this impression, but maybe Baelish had given her a look that had her concerned. Maybe she was just overthinking it. But her next words run a chill through him that matches what she felt that night.

“I'd made him angry," she begins. "I think up until that point, in all his delusion, Littlefinger still hoped to win my love someday. But he saw it my face, he knew that someone else had already stolen his prize away." 

Sansa sees Jon clench his jaw but continues with the rest of what happened. "He made his threat by mentioning the Red Wedding, reminding me Robb was murdered because he broke his vow to be married when he fell in love with someone else. Then he said he looked forward to seeing Lord Arryn again.” 

“Sansa,” he urges with fury coursing through his blood. “How could you have let him go? He’ll tell Cersei the first chance he gets.”

“I know,” she replies cautiously, but Jon pleads for understanding so she continues, trying to reassure him. “Cersei won’t believe him. If anything, she will be offended and think he's trying to use her own vulnerabilities against her in his manipulation. She knows how he works. She's been persecuted and threatened for years because of her relationship with her brother, including by our family.”

He looks at her, almost offended, refusing to acknowledge to himself that she's right. “So, you think her sins will be the shield against facing justice for our own.”

Sansa sighs, but won't allow herself to feel any guilt for their love. Or for her actions regarding Littlefinger.

“Even if she does believe him, she’ll know she could never use this to gain influence over the North.” Sansa sees him doubting her and explains, “Revealing it to the Northern Lords would only remind them of her own secrets. They’d never trust her, and she’s smart enough to know that.”

“You almost sound as if you admire her,” Jon accuses.

“I learned a great deal from her,” she replies painfully. Then she softens, trying to get him to look at her. “I need you to trust me on this, Jon. Please.” 

He fills with rage as he looks back at the flaming barricade that now stands between North and South. He’d ask her why she waited until now to tell him this, but he already knows. “The man shouldn’t have been allowed to live,” he bites. “Threat or not, he’s evil.” 

Sansa reaches for him, but he pulls back. “Jon,” she begs softly. 

Finally, he meets her eyes again and tells her definitively, “I want him to die.”

She takes his hand in hers, refusing his resistance, and holds him firmly in her grasp as she makes her promise. “He will.”

Her eyes push into him, stirring a reminder of the fierceness their love holds. He relents, returning her touch now with acceptance, though the worry never leaves his face. Both horses are nudged forward and they continue their journey north as Sansa details the rest of her plan. 

 

***

“Hello, Theon.” 

Yara watches her brother move closer to the girl now standing where a boy once had. Then she looks back at the man with the hammer who remains silently gripped around his weapon.

“Theon, who is this?” she asks, finally starting to recover from the shock of seeing the face pulled off and gathering her defenses once again.

Theon just continues to stare in horror, unable to offer any answers. Arya’s eyes are holding him prisoner as the ghosts of his past begin to choke out the life from his lungs. Then she turns, releasing him at last to address his superior.

“My name is Arya Stark,” she begins, moving forward so that she stands between the two krakens. Her sword is still sheathed, but that doesn’t matter. Arya knows she could kill them both before either of them blinked. “We are going north to join my family in the fight to take back our home. Winterfell has been lost to us for some time you see, ever since your _prince_ captured it and murdered my little brothers.”

“I didn’t,” Theon whispers behind her. Arya turns on him suddenly, and he looks down in shame. “I killed two farm boys and burned them so that everyone would think it was Bran and Rickon. Your brothers are still alive.”

A long and brutal silence holds the room now. Nobody moves or speaks, but the blaze of fresh fire pouring out of Arya's skin is felt by all. The heat threatens to consume them before she finally moves, stalking back toward him with a dangerous focus. 

“Take us north,” she demands quietly. Theon looks at her again, holding her eyes with his own as he faces the justice he’s owed. Part of him wishes she would just cut his throat, giving him mercy at last. But that part is a coward he will no longer hide behind. 

Theon stands taller, silently committing himself to her service, even if it means leading her by the hand straight into the wolf’s den so that he can be devoured by the entire North all at once. Then he nods.

“Theon,” Yara argues and then he turns to her. “What are you doing? You're the only brother I've got left." Arya shifts her eyes to Yara, realizing now who this woman is. "We can’t go north, they’ll kill you.”

“I deserve it,” he admits, but his posture remains uncowering as he moves closer to his sister. “I'm not asking you to come,” he promises. “I will face this alone if I have to, Yara, but I _do_ have to face it.” 

Yara sneers at him and he closes his eyes for a moment in apology. “You would just offer yourself back into that hell. And if the Starks are defeated, what then? They might grant you a quick execution for your crimes, but Ramsay Bolton won’t.”

“I know,” he flinches. 

Arya watches them closely and Yara puts her hand on the back of Theon’s head, grabbing him by the hair as she pulls his attention close. “I told you I’d never let him hurt you again.”

Theon takes a deep breath and Yara presses her forehead to his, then shoves him away in frustration. She turns back to Arya with a furious scan, and then commands, “Let’s go. My men are waiting for us on the ship.”

“You’ll take us, then?” Arya reads her eyes carefully for deception, but there isn't any. Only hateful resignation and fierce love for her brother possess the warrior, and Arya finds she respects it, despite herself. 

“If he goes north, then so do I.” Yara turns back to Theon. “But we will go with our men. The Starks can kill you if they want, but not without a fight. And if they don't, then we will destroy that vicious cunt together. I promised you revenge, little brother, and the time has come.”

Theon nods as the hint of a smile presses on his lips. He follows Yara as she marches out of the hovel, and Arya turns to Gendry. She smirks at his look of astonishment, and then pulls him by the hand as they all make their way toward the sea.


	42. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran prepares to leave Greywater Watch, and Arya learns of Yara's plan.

Bran enters the guest hall of Greywater Watch with Meera to have their supper. They see Howland telling an animated tale to Sweetrobin about his time at the Isle of Faces.

“Trees don’t talk,” Robin argues through a smile of intrigue.

“That is true, young lord, for most trees,” Howland agrees. “But weirwoods do, if you know how to listen.”

“My throne is made of weirwood!” Robin announces with great pride. 

Howland nods, but his face falls slightly, thinking of what a great crime it is to cut down the ancient trees. His smile returns to full strength, however, when he sees his daughter and her companion approaching.

“Good evening my love,” he greets Meera, jumping to his feet to embrace her. Then he turns to Bran and pushes his chair up to the table. “I hope you two are hungry. We have quite a spread prepared.”

Meera returns her father’s kind smile and sits next to Bran who remains expressionless as they prepare to eat. Once they have all be served, Howland invites them to begin. 

Bran takes two bites of fish before setting down his fork and turning his face to Howland. “It is time for us to leave,” he states plainly.

Meera looks at him in shock and then to her father. Howland offers her a gentle nod of reassurance before addressing Bran. “I’ve not yet heard word from my men that the battle is over.”

“It is,” Bran states. “My brother and sister left Moat Cailin this morning. They will arrive at White Harbor within a week.” 

“Jon said he wanted to secure the city before you go," Meera tells him, the concern clear in her voice. 

Howland agrees, contributing, "It will take the armies longer than that to reach White Harbor if they’ve only left Moat Cailin today.”

“They won’t be taking the armies, only a small party. And the city is already secure.” Bran takes another bite, as if this is all that needs to be said. 

Meera understands how he knows all of this, but she still needs more of an explanation. She knows her father will, too.

“Bran,” she begins quietly, but he doesn’t wait for her to ask before offering what he knows.

“The Manderlys have been secretly working against the Boltons since before Jon and Sansa’s campaign. Most of the house is garrisoned at Winterfell, and they have been smuggling food to the other houses when they can. Those remaining at Newcastle have been preparing for Jon and Sansa to arrive, and all will be ready by the time Lord Arryn and I land.”

“Land?” Howland asks, fascinated by the boy’s information. 

“In the morning we will travel to the Bite where a ship is waiting to take us to White Harbor. Ser Bronn has arranged everything. We spoke about it before he left the castle.” Bran looks to Meera now, who is staring into her plate with a lost sadness. 

“Is it a big ship?” Robin asks Bran with excitement. “The one that brought us here wasn't. I’ve never been on a _big_ ship before.”

“It is big enough,” Bran replies. He is still looking at Meera, but then says to no one in particular, “I should rest. The travel will be difficult for me.”

He begins to wheel himself back and Meera stands dutifully to help, but he stops her by placing a hand on hers. “Stay with your father,” he orders plainly. “Come and say goodnight to me after you’ve finished eating.” 

Without another word, Bran wheels himself out of the hall. Meera sits again and Howland notices a tear fall down her cheek that she brushes quickly away. He gestures to a servant standing near the door to the hall and when he comes over Howland says, “Would you be so kind as to help Lord Arryn prepare for bed? He’ll need to be packed up for the journey north as well.”

The small man nods and Robin leaves with him, chatting mindlessly about his excitement for seeing the ship. Howland then places his hand on Meera’s and squeezes it gently.

“Are you alright?” he asks quietly.

She brushes away another tear and nods, trying to smile but finding it too difficult. “I thought we had more time, that’s all.” 

“You love the boy very much.” 

Meera wrinkles her forehead as if she can’t understand it herself. “He’s not even himself anymore. We barely speak, and when we do it is so…”

“Yet, you love him all the same.” Howland cups her chin with his hand and she looks at him for guidance. “The two of you have been through something together that nobody could ever understand. And Jojen, too. I know it was difficult, but it was also incredibly brave. I’m proud of you, Meera. Prouder than you could ever know.”

Meera lowers her head and whispers, “I couldn’t save him.”

“Jojen knew what his purpose was, he told me so before he left. And he knew how it would end for him.” Howland watches her carefully and sees that she knows this already. “He was meant to guide Brandon Stark to find the Three-eyed Raven. You were meant to protect him. And you still are.”

Meera looks at him again, questioning this time. “He doesn’t need my protection anymore.”

“Some people will always need help,” he tells her as he stares deeply into her eyes. 

She flinches hearing her own words spoken back to her, and she knows what it means. “I belong here, now. With you. The Long Night is coming, Father. It’s coming for us all.” 

“My darling girl,” he says with another kind smile. “I am an old man, and I’ve chosen to hide away on this bog when I could have done more. It is too late for me now. But you still have the chance to do what's right. He needs you. The _realm_ needs you. Go with him, and fight for as long as you can.”

She stares at him, taking in the words of her father with careful consideration. It isn’t what she expected him to say, but she realizes it is what she wanted to hear. 

 

***

 

Arya and Gendry return to their cabin on the ship after a strange and mostly silent supper with the Greyjoy siblings.

“Well, that was about as awkward as could be expected,” Arya states as she begins to remove her boots. 

Gendry sits in the chair near the small writing desk next to the bed. He is smiling at her like a man holding a valuable secret.

“What?” she asks, raising an eyebrow at him as she tosses her boots into the corner of the confined space. 

“Nothing,” he chuckles, but his stare remains fixed. When he sees her begin to get annoyed, he relents. “You just never cease to amaze me.” Gendry looks around the cabin and then back at her. 

Arya brushes this off as she continues to remove her outer layers. “There’s nothing impressive about convincing Theon Greyjoy to do something. He’s always been an idiot.”

Gendry chuckles again and says, “Right.” 

She rolls her eyes at him as she lays her jerkin on the desk, but she is close enough for him to capture now and he does. Pulling her by the hips, Gendry stands her in front of him and looks up into her eyes.

“Arya,” he begins with a fierce intent in his voice. “You have always impressed me, from the first time I laid eyes on you, looking like a skinny little boy ready to slay any hard man that got in your way.”

She smirks at him, but places her hands on his shoulders. “Hot Pie and Lommy weren’t hard men.”

“No,” he agrees. Then he lowers his hands, kneading her ass for a moment before tugging her breeches down her legs. “But I am.” 

Arya smiles, kicking her legs free of the garment and then straddles his lap, thrusting herself against the proof of his claim. “Aren’t you afraid I’ll slay you then?”

“You already have.” 

Gendry brings his tongue to her neck and she closes her eyes, losing all memory of the clever retort she’d planned on giving next. His hands return to knead around her ass until his fingertips brush against her wetness from behind. Working quickly, she removes her tunic and his mouth moves down to her tits. 

Arya leans into him, letting his hands and mouth travel over her naked body while he remains fully clothed. She grinds her sex against the steel in his trousers, making them wet with her desire. Then she brings her hand to his laces at last, and frees him from the constricting material he is nearly ripping apart. 

She holds him in her hand, pushing her heat against his as he brings his kiss back up to her lips. Arya removes his doublet and tunic as her tongue continues to dance with his. Then they both release a hard groan into each other’s mouth as she lifts herself up and then lowers again slowly, pressing herself down onto his thick tip. She can only take half of him inside her before she stops. His hands tighten around her back, desperate as her tightness closes around him. Then she lifts up again slightly before bringing herself all the way down to his base. 

“Fuck…” he cries as their lips part. Arya brings both of her hands around the back of his neck, lacing her fingers together as they gaze into each other’s eyes. Then she begins rocking her hips, watching as her movements cause him to look as if he might cry. It makes her smile and she quickens her pace. 

Gendry holds onto her as she rides him, unable to take his eyes from her face. _She is so beautiful,_ he thinks to himself, and then he hears himself say out loud, “I love you.” 

She stills and he watches her carefully. Her eyes dart back and forth between both of his as if she is searching for something, but he only smiles again. Then her eyebrows lift together as she plunges her lips back onto his. Arya begins moving her body again, pressing her feet into the floorboards as she rises and falls on him. Gendry slides his hands around her ass, pulling her down hard each time she plants herself again. She feels so warm, so comforting, like he has finally found his home. She is his family now. 

Arya begins to whimper against his lips and he encourages her with a groan from the back of his throat. She moves her mouth away from him and leans over his shoulder as she starts to feel it coming. 

“Yes, that’s it,” he tells her in a whispered growl. “Come on.” 

Her thighs press tightly against his and Gendry can feel it happening from inside her. She is already so tight, but when her body starts to convulse around him, her cries getting louder and louder, he holds his breath at the pressure of her peak squeezing him like a vice. Arya’s body shakes in his arms while the last of her release pulses through her, and then she lifts her head and kisses him again.

She stands, pulling him out of her, and her eyes roam over his hard body in appreciation. The dazed look on his face almost makes her laugh, but she only smirks before turning away from him. 

Gendry watches her as she crawls onto the bed, her gorgeous form looking like a wolf on the prowl. He is dizzy and doesn’t move until she peers back at him and catches his attention with his name. “Gendry,” she commands seductively. He lifts his eyebrows as if to ask for further instruction and then his jaw falls open when he sees her spread her knees, lifting her ass higher in the air. “Take me,” she whispers, her glare deepening with intention.

He stands, clumsily pulling his boots and breeches off, and then kicks them aside. Then he moves to her, holding his aching cock in one hand and gripping her hip with the other. When he guides himself into her again, he bites his lip, groaning and squeezing his eyes closed with the sensation. He holds her with both hands then and tries with everything he has to go slowly. But it is hopeless. He opens his eyes and looks down, watching himself push into her harder and faster, all the while being urged on by her endless moans. 

Arya arches her back, thrusting her hips against him as he slams into her from behind. She feels wild, unleashed, and it takes her to a place she’s never been before. The noises coming from her throat grow more and more savage, as she can no longer find any concern for discretion. She can’t possibly care if anyone else on the ship hears her as they are the only two people left in existence now. 

She lifts up, pulling her hands from the bed and pressing them against the wall. Gendry’s hands come around her body, groping her tits and using them as leverage as his body slaps against hers. “Arya, I’m going to come,” he warns, but she keeps her hold on him and pushes back harder. 

“Don’t stop,” she begs, feeling herself getting close again, too. “Come in me, it’s okay. I want you to.”

“Arya, I… I can’t… I can’t stop!” 

She pushes her hands hard, thrusting herself off the wall as she brings her back up to his chest. Gendry wraps his arms around her, holding her tight against his body and pressing his face into her neck. Arya’s arms lift up, one holding onto his neck and the other reaching up to the low ceiling above them. One final thrust lifts them both and Arya screams, her walls close down on him again as his cock pulses, releasing stream after stream of seed deep inside her. 

Gendry collapsing, pulling her down with him on their sides as he tries to catch his breath. He pulls out of her at last, resting his sensitive, spent cock against her as it begins to wilt. Then he can feel the warm liquid fall back out of her and he wraps his arms tighter, whispering “I’m sorry,” in her ear. 

Arya turns her body, facing him now as her hand meets his face. She kisses him hard and then looks at him and says, “I’m not.”

“Arya,” he insists. “It isn’t right, I’m a bastard.” 

She laughs at him and he feels foolish but then she pushes her body closer to his and they feel each other's warmth. “I like bastards,” she tells him before pressing her lips against his again. Her tongue teases his lightly, then she says, “And I love you, too.”

 

***

 

Meera enters Bran’s chamber and sees him sitting by the fire. She expects his usual quiet distance and so it surprises her when he looks directly at her upon her approach. What surprises her even more is the faint smile that appears across his face.

“You’re coming with us,” he states as a matter of fact. 

Meera watches him for a moment, and then sits in the chair across from him. “Is that what you want?” She isn’t sure anymore whether Bran actually wants anything, or if he is just doing what is required of him by this new purpose he’s found. 

“Of course, I do.” 

Bran is looking so deeply into her eyes that she can’t help but recognize him, the old him. The boy she’d guided to the wall and beyond it. She knows he’s different now, but the thought of that boy being gone forever is what causes her pain. 

“Bran,” she begins with tears in her eyes, but then he reaches out and his hand pulls hers into a warm clutch. Meera sighs, smiling as she looks down at the touch they share. Then he pulls her attention back to his face with the most shocking of all his pronouncements.

“I love you.” The words come out as devoid of emotion as the rest, and yet they sound like a song to her. “I’m sorry for what I am now, for what I have to be. I know that it causes you pain and I never wanted that.”

Meera lets her tears fall and moves to him, pulling him tightly into her arms. “It’s alright,” she whispers, feeling such relief as his arms close around her back. “I understand.” 

When she is able to let him go again, she returns to sitting across from him but pulls her chair closer, holding his hand again. He watches her as she gathers her thoughts, and then she tells him everything she’s wanted to for so long.

“I know how important you are,” she begins as she wipes her face dry. “Jojen knew it before we ever left. I don’t want to stand in the way of that, not ever. But I love you too, Bran. I love you more than I ever thought would be possible. So whatever you need me to be, whatever you need _us_ to be, then that’s what I want, too.”

“You deserve more than that,” he says quietly. 

“I don’t care. Do you hear me?” She touches his face and he smiles again. “Do you believe me?”

Bran nods, and then looks back into the fire. “I need to learn to see better, but I’m afraid of losing myself completely.” 

“What can I do to help?” Meera watches him carefully and then he looks back into her eyes.

“I don’t know,” he says softly. “But I know that both work better when you’re near me. I see things more clearly, like I know where to look. And I also feel more like myself.”

“Really?” she asks. 

Bran squeezes her hand and explains, “Like right now, when I hold your hand I can the Children, I can see what magic they used to fight the Long Night before. I think I can even understand how it works. But I can also see me, and you, on the night you warned me not to stay inside Summer for too long. Do you remember what you told me?”

“That you’d forget yourself, and us.”

“You were right,” he tells her kindly. Then he takes a deep breath, as if feeling pain. “I don’t want to forget, Meera.”

She watches him carefully, and then looks at their hands again. His words pull on her and she realizes that, whatever happens, she has to listen to her heart. She looks at him again, quietly studying his face, memorizing every detail until her eyes fall to his lips. Then she kisses him, softly and slowly, until he gently presses back against her.

When they part she sees his eyes widen and he takes another deep breath. “What is it?” she asks cautiously. “What did you see?”

“Everything.”

 

***

 

A quiet knock on their cabin door awakens Arya in a blink. She looks at Gendry beside her and he is still completely passed out. Another gentle knock comes, followed by the weak voice of Theon Greyjoy saying her name. 

She pulls on her breeches and tunic and then opens the door. Theon glances her over and then looks at the naked man snoring in her bed before returning his worried eyes back to her face. 

“What is it?” she asks impatiently.

“Yara needs to speak with you,” he tells her before dropping his eyes to the floor. “Would you come with me?”

Arya leaves the door open and takes her cloak from the hook beside the bed. Then she grabs her boots and exits with Theon, pulling them on in the hallway after quietly closing the door behind her. When she is decent enough, they begin making their way to the deck of the ship. 

Theon doesn’t question her, but she can feel that he wants to so she offers, “You don’t approve?”

He looks at her with surprise, still assuming no right to an opinion on what anybody does, much less any of the Starks. But then he feels a bit of his old self begin to surface and thinks of Lord Stark. Whatever crimes he’s committed against their family won’t be remedied by ignoring his protective instincts, and so he decides to respond honestly. 

“Is he good to you?” Theon asks timidly. “Do you trust him?” 

Arya considers him for a moment, but then doesn’t answer. She hasn’t decided yet how she plans to deal with this man, and until she has she wants to keep her guard up. Still, the concern stirs a warmth in her she hadn’t expected. 

They surface from the stairs and the cold night air whips her face as she sees Yara standing near the railing of the ship. Arya paces herself ahead of Theon and approaches the woman, taking a stand next to her on the deck.

“You wanted to speak with me?” Arya asks, looking out into the black night.

Yara faces her, glancing for a moment at Theon still standing in the shadows and says, “We are sailing to Saltspear. I have a hundred ships from the Iron Fleet under my command and they will be following us once we’ve passed through the Iron Islands.” Arya turns and looks at her now. “The rest of my ships will dock, and my men will travel north by land from there, but we will continue up the river to Torrhen’s Square.”

Arya listens but does not respond. She is playing the game and already knows there is a tension accompanying these plans.

“When my brother took Winterfell, he was able to do so by drawing the Stark forces away by sending men to attack Torrhen’s Square. We have many enemies in the North, and if we are going to make it to Winterfell we will need your help.” She sighs, looking at Theon again, and Arya follows her gaze.

“You want me to speak to the Northerners and ask them to forgive what you’ve done to them?” Arya’s disdain is not hidden in any way.

“No,” she replies. “I want you to tell them you’ve captured us, and that you’ll be taking us to Winterfell to meet justice once your family is back in power.” 

Arya is taken off guard, a rare thing. She watches the woman, concentrating hard to find any deceptions but she can’t. Then she looks at Theon again and sees him approaching. He stands next to his sister and Arya can see that his strength grows by her side. 

“Yara and I have discussed what changes we hope to make once she takes her place as ruler of the Iron Islands,” Theon tells her. Again, Arya listens wordlessly as she takes in his intentions while revealing none of her own. “I can never make amends to your family for the things I’ve done. But your father raised me to be a better man than my mine, so that someday the Iron Islands would be ruled honorably. I failed him in that, but my sister is who our people need. I only ask that if you choose to seek justice, you do it to me, and let my sister go.”

Arya narrows her brows at him, and then turns to Yara and asks, “What makes you think your people will follow you? They chose your uncle.”

“My people follow strength,” Yara tells her. “But I know the kind of strength Euron rules with. Those who’ve chosen to follow him will be led into almost certain death, and if any live, they will be returning home without their tongues.” 

Arya see Theon flinch even though her eyes remain fixed on Yara.

“Besides, he has gone on a mission that will likely never bring him back. While he is out trying to align with Cersei and gain more power, our people remain at home without a leader to protect them.” Yara looks at Theon now for a moment. 

He nods to her and then he tells Arya, “We have heard about what’s coming. Our father received a raven from the Night’s Watch before his death warning about the Army of the Dead. He didn’t believe it, but we came across some Wildlings after we left home. The way they spoke of what they saw…” 

She sees them both shudder and then Theon straightens again and looks her directly in the eyes. “The only hope any of us has for surviving the Great War is with Jon leading the fight. We will help you win back Winterfell, and hopefully reestablish our alliance with your house. Then we will return to the Iron Islands to prepare our people for what is coming.” 

Arya remains unflinching, revealing nothing that would suggest this is the first she’s heard of any of this. She thinks of Jon, wondering why he’d not told her. But if this is true, she knows what he would want. So, she nods in agreement with the plan, and then turns to make her way back to her cabin without another word.


	43. Lions and Wolves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime reveals his instructions from Bran.

Two dark bodies covered in thick fur stand beside each other on the ridge of a small cliff overlooking the valley. Behind them is a dense wood thick with lush oaks covered in moss, upon which dew begins to crystalize in the frosty night air. Below them in the valley is a scatter of grey canvas and low burning braziers. Above them is a radiantly bright full moon. 

Misty clouds float by, muting the stars in the night sky, but there is no dulling the brilliance of this moon. It holds their eyes rapt by its wonder, as the two wolves bathe in the glowing light. 

“It’s incredible,” he says quietly. 

“The next full moon we see will be from the walls of Winterfell,” she replies. 

“Aye, if the siege is quick. I expect we will.” 

“We will,” she repeats. They are both still watching the moon and she adds, “I’ve seen it.”

Jon turns to her and Sansa meets his dark eyes with hers, the blue in them glimmering in the moonlight. The sight of her makes him lose his breath for a moment.

Maybe it’s the lunar force, or maybe it’s the thrill of victory still coursing through them both, but resistance is becoming more difficult by the minute. He wants to kiss her, and she wants to tear off his clothes.

Just as Jon is about to suggest going back, something floats down between them and rests lightly on Sansa’s cheek. They both look up and see the light flakes coming down from the sky. Jon places a hand on her back as they turn to watch the snow fall over the quiet camp and she leans against him, trusting that even if this gesture were seen by their men it would meet no suspicion. 

“It’s wonderful to be back in the North,” Sansa says quietly with a sigh. 

Jon rubs her back softly and says, “Yes.”

“I spent so much time in the South. Everything is so different there, so horrible. All I could think about was home, and how much I missed snow.” She holds her hand out to catch some of it.

Jon feels his heart fill, allowing himself to pretend she was saying his name. “You never have to go back there, Sansa. I promise.”

She looks at him again, ready to risk a kiss but then notices something moving in the distance. They both turn and see a rider approaching the camp. It is too dark for them to see who it is from their position on the cliff, but before he can reach the encampment he is stopped by two blonde knights. 

Sansa recognizes the silhouettes of Jaime and Brienne as they speak with the rider, and then all three turn and ride together toward the barracks. 

 

***

When Jon dismounts from his horse he sees a small crowd gathered toward the center of camp. He turns to Sansa who is dismounting as well and she appears just as concerned as he is. They walk together toward the group which includes Davos, Podrick, Tormund, Arden Fenn, Lord Royce, and the two knights flanking the rider, who Jon now recognizes as Bronn. 

“What are you doing here?” Jon asks as he approaches. “I thought you’d left after Greywater Watch.”

“Aye, I did,” Bronn tells him as he lowers himself from his horse. Jaime and Brienne do as well. “I’ve been arranging things in White Harbor, on orders from your brother.”

“Bran?” Sansa questions in surprise. 

Bronn nods and looks around at the rest of the shocked faces. He laughs to himself a little, realizing the strange little lord hadn’t bothered to inform anyone else of his instructions. “Perhaps we could speak somewhere with ale?”

Jon turns to Davos with an unspoken acknowledgement. While Jon trusts his men, he’d only confided in Davos about the current status of his little brother when they’d returned from Greywater Watch. The whole Three-Eyed Raven thing was difficult enough for him to understand, and he knew it would sound even more strange to someone like Lord Royce. 

“Ser Davos,” Jon addresses quickly. “Perhaps you and Lord Royce could go over the details of our plans with Tormund and Lord Fenn while my sister and I speak with Ser Bronn. I’d like for them to leave as soon as possible to get a good lead on the rest of the armies.” 

Jon had already sent Brynden and Clegane outriding to intercept any communication they can between the enemy forces. Jon and Davos intended to hold war council tonight regarding the details of Tormund’s mission to seek out the Wildlings, so he figured this was a good excuse to remove the others while discussing Bran. 

“Of course,” Davos nods, and he leads the three men toward the council tent at the far end of the camp. 

The rest of them enter a larger tent located nearby, where the soldiers took their meals. It is empty, as the evening is getting late and supper has long since been finished.

Podrick lights the candles, and then busies himself with warming some food for Ser Bronn while Jon pours out ale for them all. Sansa sits next to Brienne across from Bronn and Jaime, and then Jon takes a seat on her other side. 

“I’d wondered where you went,” Jaime tells his man. “Thought you’d abandoned me.” 

Bronn rolls his eyes and then pulls the plate of food from Podrick before he can fully bring it to rest on the table. Podrick sits next to him and watches the rough knight start to shovel food into his mouth before washing it down with the entire mug of ale. 

“You said our brother gave you orders?” Jon’s eyes are fixed sharply on the man he barely knows.

“He told me to ride for White Harbor and arrange for a ship to be sent down the coast of the Bite to pick up him and the Arryn boy,” Bronn explains between bites. “He wanted it to be waiting for them as soon as the fighting at Moat Cailin was finished. The captain will be meeting them in the morning and then bring them up to New Castle.”

“But it’s too soon,” Brienne interrupts. “White Harbor hasn’t been taken yet.” 

Bronn shrugs, and wipes his mouth on his glove. “From the looks of it, there won’t be much to take. I counted maybe fifty men holding the castle, and didn’t see any soldiers patrolling the city. Most of the Manderlys have garrisoned inside Winterfell by now.” 

Jon looks at Sansa for a moment, and then returns to addressing Bronn. “That doesn’t make sense. The Boltons must know we would be heading for White Harbor next.”

“Maybe they hoped for a better outcome at the Moat. All I know is what I saw. There were only fifty men, but half of them were Boltons. It was strange…”

“Strange how?” Jaime asks, turning more toward him.

“Well, I watched for two days and it was always the same. Every time a Bolton went anywhere, a Manderly went with him. On patrol, when they ate, even when they went to take a piss. It was like they were coupled off in pairs.” Bronn shrugs again and refills his mug. 

“Why is that strange?” Sansa questions. “If they’re allies, wouldn’t they be working together?” 

“Aye, but look at your own armies,” Bronn tells her. “You’ve got Knights of the Vale, Tullys, and Crannogmen all fighting beside each other. But when they aren’t fighting, they spend their time with their own, for the most part, don’t they?”

Sansa isn’t sure she’d ever paid that much attention. Jon has, though. He is often walking through the camps, speaking with his men and ensuring they have what they need. He realizes Bronn is right. In the downtime of war, soldiers are just men, talking and breaking bread with the friends they know well. Reminiscing about the homelands they shared.

“I didn’t see a single Bolton soldier without a Manderly by his side the entire time I was there. If you ask me, something’s up. Either way, they will be easy to take out. Probably could have done it myself, but the Raven’s instructions were clear.” He is speaking directly to Jon, now. “I was to arrange the ship and return to your service.” 

The address of their brother as the Raven takes both Jon and Sansa by surprise. Bronn looks at them now with an unmistakable conviction. Brienne and Jaime recognize it, as well. 

“I didn’t realize you’d spoken with him,” Jaime says quietly, remembering his own eerie encounter with the prophetic Raven. 

“Well, I did. The boy sure knows how to get a man’s attention, I’ll give him that.” Sansa sees him shudder and knows Bran must have scared the man with a jarring insight into something he’d previously thought to be private. 

Jon thinks this over for a moment and then says, “We should ride for White Harbor in the morning. But just us in this room. The rest of the army can continue north. We shouldn’t waste any more time if it isn’t needed. And if Bran is on the move, then we should trust that he knows White Harbor will be secure.”

“Are you sure?” Brienne asks cautiously. “It could be a trap.”

Jon looks at her, and then back at Sansa who speaks next. “No, Jon’s right. Bran is too valuable now. I trust the men fighting for us, in so much as they have followed Jon into this war. But I don’t think anyone should know more than they need to about Bran, not unless he decides they should.”

Bronn looks at them all thinking deeply as he continues to eat, then he turns to Jaime and says, “You can take the ship from White Harbor to Dragonstone after the little lords land.”

Jon and Sansa both look at Jaime. He hadn’t gotten around to telling them about that yet. He glances at Brienne and then sighs, figuring there he has no choice now.

“I also received orders from your brother,” he begins, still trying to decide how much to reveal. He isn’t sure if Jon or Sansa knows he is the one who pushed Bran from the window, so he decides not to mention it until they do. “I saw him on our last night at Greywater. He said he needed to speak with me.” 

Jon’s eyes narrow on him and Sansa leans in to listen carefully. By now, she views anything that Bran says to be vitally important information. “What did he tell you to do?” she asks impatiently.

Jaime looks at her now. “He told me I needed to protect you during the battle at Moat Cailin. I assume, now, that he was talking about Littlefinger.” 

Sansa takes a deep breath and Jon looks at her for a moment.

“Then he said I needed to go to Dragonstone.” Jaime pauses for a moment, looking down at his golden hand, then adds, “To find my brother.”

“Tyrion?” Sansa gasps. “He’s alive?”

Jaime nods. “I helped him escape King’s Landing before he could be executed for Joffrey’s murder, but before he left he killed our father with a crossbow. Haven't seen him since.” 

Bronn speaks up, saying, “You told me if you ever saw him again you’d split him in two.”

Jaime glares at him and then Jon interrupts the hostility by asking, “What does Bran want with Tyrion?”

“After he escaped the city, Varys took him across the narrow sea to meet Daenerys Targaryen.” Jon is shocked by this, and Sansa leans in further as Jaime continues. “She’s spent her years in exile building a great army which she has just brought back with her to Westeros. She's here to reclaim the Iron Throne. Apparently, Tyrion is now her hand.”

“So, does Bran want you to help her, or stop her?” Sansa asks, still not understanding why her brother has involved himself in third war.

“Neither,” Jaime replies. “Daenerys also has three full-grown dragons. Your brother believes they will be vital in defeating the Night King and the Army of the Dead.”

“How do you know about that?” Jon asks suddenly. His focus has not been on the Great War as of late. Still, the Night King is never far from his mind. 

“I told him,” Brienne answers. She shows no defensiveness for her decision, but further elaborates, “In my opinion, everyone ought to know what is coming for them.”

“I agree,” Jon nods. “But we need to take Winterfell and unite the North first if there is any hope of defeating him.”

“Which, I assume, is why the Raven set _me_ to this task and not you,” Jaime replies with a hint of annoyance. 

Jon flinches at the tone, but knows he is right. That doesn’t make him any less suspicious of this man, however. “So, you are going to go and speak with your brother, a man you want to kill, and convince him and his queen to abandon their cause to fight with us?” 

They can all see how this looks, but Jaime continues to glare in defiance at Jon. “That was the instruction.”

Sansa continues to study Jaime closely and asks, “Why would you agree to that? What did Bran tell you to prove he's the Three-Eyed Raven?” She and Jon both remember what it felt like to have their secrets displayed before them. 

“He told me who murdered my son.” Jaime’s claim of Joffrey as his is not lost on anyone in the room. Somehow, this confession works to remind them all that the mission they are on will require trust, and honesty, between all of them. 

Jon looks at Sansa who continues to remain fixed on Jaime. She’d told him that Littlefinger planned Joffrey’s assassination, but neither of them know who he was working with. 

“Who was it?” Brienne asks him softly. He hadn’t told her this part before.

“Olenna Tyrell,” he answers, still looking at Sansa. “Although, Cersei is still convinced it was you.” 

“My necklace,” Sansa whispers to herself. Then she sees the questioning looks from the others and explains. “Littlefinger told me the poison was in the necklace he’d arranged for me to wear that day. Lady Olenna had spoken to me just before the wedding feast. I remember now, she was fixing my hair and telling me that she was sorry about Robb. She must have taken the stone from my necklace while I was distracted.”

“Yes, well I suppose she thought Tommen was a more suitable choice for Margaery,” Jaime continues, but the pain in his voice is clear. Sansa looks at him with pity. No matter how evil Joffrey was, Jaime was still his father. She remembers the look on his face as he ran toward his dying son. 

“I’m sorry,” she offers quietly. Jon looks at her with surprise, so does Jaime. “For you, I mean. I won’t pretend I was sad when Joffrey died, but he was still just a child. _Your_ child.”

Jaime takes a deep breath and Sansa sees the reflection of a tear come to the corner of his eye. Then he shakes it away and says, “All of my children are dead, now. I couldn’t protect them. I thought that by lying about who their father was, they would be safe. But in the end, that’s what killed them.”

Sansa looks down, stunned at the compassion she is feeling for this man, but then thinks of the secret relationship she is sharing with her own brother now. 

“I’m sorry for all of the pain you suffered at his hands,” Jaime tells her unexpectedly and she looks back at him. “I know he was a monster, and I’m not sure that would have been any different if I had been a real father to him. But I would have tried to stop it if I could.” 

“Nobody could have stopped him,” she admits. “Tyrion did try, though.” 

“I'll never forget that,” Bronn says suddenly and Jaime turns to him. “We walked into the throne room and saw Meryn Trant beating her on Joffrey’s orders. I’ve seen a lot of things in my day, but the way all those people just stood there and watched…” He doesn’t finish his thought and Sansa sees Jon’s fists clench on the table.

“Tyrion walked right up to him, braver than any man in that room, and put an end to it,” Bronn explains. “He even ordered me to kill Trant if he spoke again. I probably would have been killed by the rest of the White Cloaks if I’d have had to follow through with it, but it would have been worth it.”

Jon is fuming. This is the second account he’s now heard of Meryn Trant beating Sansa, on top of what Arya had told him about the man killing her dancing master. “I’m going to murder that man someday,” he says to no one in particular. 

“He’s already dead,” Jaime tells him. Sansa and Jon both look at him with surprise. “He was killed in Braavos. Cersei sent him there to guard Mace Tyrell while he negotiated with the Iron Bank, but Trant never made it back.”

The word Braavos catches Jon’s attention and he feels Sansa’s leg press against his. 

Jaime continues with disgust dripping from his voice. “The way the soldiers tell it, he was visiting a brothel requesting the company of children. Apparently, his enjoyment of beating little girls extended beyond the king’s orders. But one of them fought back. Rumor has it he was slaughtered beyond all recognition. She’d even gouged his eyes out. I don’t know what little girl could do something like that, but good for her.”

Jon and Sansa look at each other again. They know exactly which little girl did it, and a faint smile crosses both of their lips at the same time. 

Podrick speaks up for the first time in this conversation and asks Jaime, “Are you going to kill Lord Tyrion?”

Jaime looks at the squire, seeing the true concern in his eyes. It melts the last of his cynicism and he answers honestly, “No.” He takes a long drink of ale and then turns back to Jon. “But I have no idea how I’m supposed to convince him or his dragon queen to send their forces north, either. I only promised your brother I would try.”

Jon thinks about this and then turns to Sansa and asks, “What do you think?”

“If she has dragons, and they breathe fire… But she’s a _Targaryen._ ” Sansa sighs and Jon watches her as she thinks it over. Then she says, “If Tyrion is following her, maybe she’s different than her father.” 

Jaime offers, “I will do my best to assess her for madness, but if she has three dragons and intends to use them to burn us all alive, there isn’t much that will stop her either way.” 

“We have to trust Bran,” Jon states conclusively. He finds himself wishing his brother were part of this discussion and decides to get more information on the dragon queen when Bran joins them in White Harbor. “We should all get some sleep. I’d like to leave for White Harbor at first light tomorrow.” 

Jaime nods and he and Bronn leave the tent. Brienne motions for Pod and they follow close behind, leaving Jon and Sansa alone.

“What are you thinking about,” Sansa asks him, pulling his hand into hers as soon as the flaps of the canvas close. 

Jon sighs and shakes his head. “I don’t know. I suppose I'm just longing for the day when these wars are all behind us. We have to remain focused on Winterfell for now, but the Great War will be far worse.”

“Maybe there is hope if we have dragons on our side,” she offers sincerely. 

“Yes,” he smiles brushing her cheek with his fingers. “ _If_ they are on our side.”

Sansa leans forward and kisses him softly, then says, “Whatever happens, at least we are facing it together.”

Jon pulls her into an embrace, feeling her heart beat against his, and lets himself fill with the strength she always gives him. “I don’t want you to go back to your tent,” he whispers in her ear.

“I know,” she tells him as she tightens her arms around his back. Then she pulls away and touches his face. “We have to be careful, now more than ever. But once we are safely in White Harbor I will ask Pod to help us find some time alone.”

He blinks at her, confused. “Podrick?”

A guilty expression crosses her face as she bites her lip and Jon narrows his eyes on her. “He… well, he knows about us.”


	44. White Harbor

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa arrive at White Harbor.

Jon and Sansa ride beside each other on the narrow road leading to the north gate of White Harbor. Brienne and Podrick lead the way with Jaime and Bronn bringing up the rear of their small party. The few knights who’d accompanied Sansa from the Vale are spread out in a wide perimeter around them, riding through the thick woods that surround the path into the city.

When they enter the clearing, a high wall of white stone appears before them. Along its battlements is one hundred armored men. 

“That’s more than you said there were,” Sansa hears Jaime whisper behind her. Bronn was right about one thing, though. Boltons and Manderlys stand alternating beside each other. Each soldier wearing a flayed man is holding a bow, and each wearing a merman holds a silver trident. 

Brienne turns her head slightly back toward Sansa while keeping her eyes fixed on the armies. “Perhaps we should turn back, my lady.”

Sansa looks at Jon and his eyes make a similar suggestion. She takes a deep breath, but then her attention is drawn back as the gate creaks open, only a narrow gap, and two women emerge through the iron on foot.

As they walk closer, Sansa sees them lower the hoods of their cloaks. Both are beautiful and fair, with long braids that fall over their shoulders, only one has hair the color of ashen straw and the other… _green_. Sansa stares at them with fascination for a moment as they approach, and then suddenly dismounts from her horse. 

“What are you doing?” Jon questions her immediately. She looks at him, and then the other members of her guard who are now all staring at her in shock. Then Sansa glances back at the two women and sees them smile.

“I’m going to go speak with them,” she replies, turning to Jon again. “They are the granddaughters of Lord Manderly.”

“Let me come with you,” he begs. “Sansa, they could kill you!”

She shakes her head. “No, I don’t think they will." Jon remembers Sansa's remark about seeing the next full moon in Winterfell, but he isn't willing to place her safety on the line by trusting in visions, not yet. She reasons with him. "The soldiers won’t loose arrows at me if I’m near the ladies of the house. Besides, Ramsay needs me alive. It’s you they would risk killing.”

Jon lowers himself from his horse anyway and Sansa knows he wants to argue. But when he comes close to her, no words leave him. He just looks at her with a concerned anger that makes her long to kiss him. But instead she just puts her hand on his face and whispers, “Trust me.”

He closes his eyes for a moment and then looks at her again and nods. Then she turns and walks past Brienne and Pod without a glance. The women walk toward each other until they are near enough to hear each other’s words.

“I am Sansa Stark,” she begins loudly, her voice carrying across the space between them. “I’ve come with my brother on our way to retake our family home.”

“We know that,” the green-haired woman interrupts. She is speaking loudly, too, her face angled to the side so that her words can be heard by those behind her as well. “But aren’t you a Bolton, now? My grandfather was at your wedding.”

Sansa takes a deep breath and her face hardens slightly as the woman who’d spoken continues to smirk. Her sister beside her watches Sansa closely.

“I am a Stark,” she replies firmly. “I did what I had to do to survive, my lady, but I will always be a Stark.”

The older sister takes a step forward now and Sansa turns her attention to her as she says, “I am Wynafryd Manderly and this is my sister, Wylla. We are responsible for the great city of White Harbor while our father and grandfather are fighting this war. A war you started.”

“Roose Bolton started this war when he put a knife in my brother’s heart,” Sansa declares. The three women stare at each other for a moment and then she continues, “I would remind you that House Manderly is pledged to House Stark.”

Wylla steps forward now. “My lady, we need no reminding of our histories and oaths. Our brother followed your brother into his battle for revenge against the Lannisters.” Her eyes glance behind her toward whom Sansa assumes is Jaime. “The Freys killed him at the Red Wedding, too. House Manderly has remained loyal and honorable since the days our ancestors first sought refuge in this land. But you should know by now, that honor left the North when your father rode south. And loyalty died with your brother and his wife.”

Sansa feels the heat growing in her chest and steps forward herself now. But just as her mouth falls open to speak the two women turn toward their walls and nod. Sansa gasps as the soldiers all shift. The Boltons ready their bows, and Sansa hears her own soldiers charging toward her. She hasn’t any time to run though as she sees the tridents of every Manderly turn in unison and plunge into the hearts of the archers beside them. 

She is still gaping up at the bodies now falling dead over the white walls when Jon leaps from his horse and grabs her. The knights have emerged from the forest as well and are surrounding them all, including the ladies Manderly.

“We never abandoned our pledge,” Wynafryd states strongly as she and her sister close the distance between them and Sansa’s protectors. “House Manderly welcomes House Stark to White Harbor. My sister and I offer you all escort to the castle.”

Sansa pulls her eyes from the sight above and looks at the women again, who stare at her calmly and then smile again, before turning to walk back toward the gates. Finally, Sansa looks to Jon who is now watching the dead Boltons being thrown from the walls in shock. 

“Let’s go,” she tells him and then mounts her horse again. Jon does the same and they all proceed into the city. 

***

New Castle sits high above the city walls, on a hill overlooking White Harbor. From the tall, arched windows of the Merman’s Court, Sansa looks out over the streets and can see all the way to the Wolf’s Den, a prison near the shore built of black stone standing out against the whitewashed city. _They call it the only city in the North,_ she thinks, and now she can understand why. The markets and wide streets, lined with taverns and houses remind her of King’s Landing more than Winterfell. 

“Lady Stark,” Jon addresses formerly, calling her attention back to the gathering of the house. Sansa moves next to him and they both watch as the eldest Manderly daughter takes her seat in the large, cushioned throne that sits on a dais at the far end of the hall. 

Wylla stands next to her as the house guard surrounds them in unassuming positions. The Knights of the Vale crescent behind House Stark as Brienne, Podrick, Jaime and Bronn stand along the painted planks of the walls. 

“I’m sure you must have questions,” Wynafryd begins. “As I am sure you are also tired from your journey. My sister and I will accommodate whatever we can.” Both women nod, and Jon looks at Sansa.

“We thank you for your hospitality, my ladies,” Sansa begins, holding her hands together. “We appreciate your support in our efforts though we had, until recently, expected to find hostility upon our arrival.”

Wylla speaks next. “Yet, you only arrived with a few men.” There is suspicion in her voice, but when her eyes shift around the room to primarily Manderlys, it becomes clear that Wylla’s concern regards a breach within her own house.

“We received information from one of our scouts that the castle was held by only fifty men,” Jon contributes. “And my sister believed it would be possible to broker peace with House Manderly given the history our families share.”

Sansa doesn’t glance at him, but can feel his warmth next to her flare and knows his stretch of the truth will be revealed in his face. Manipulation and politics are her game, but she appreciates his efforts and reminds herself to show him her gratitude properly later. 

Wylla smirks at him and then Wynafryd speaks again before her sister has a chance to remark. “We thank you for your good faith, Lady Sansa. As I said, if there is anything we can accommodate, please ask.”

“Thank you, my lady,” Sansa steps forward now, signaling a more direct conversation between eldest sisters. “In truth, there is something we need. You see, when we had the impression that we would be taking the castle by force, we made certain _arrangements_ for its use during the remainder of our campaign. I’m sure you understand we hadn’t thought it necessary to gain the consent of your house at the time.”

“I see,” Wynafryd glances at her sister as a warning to remain silent and then turns back to Sansa. “And I take it those _arrangement_ are still required?” 

“They are.” Sansa waits to gage their responses. These sisters fascinate her more by the moment, and she hopes to establish a strong alliance with them, but she won’t overdo it with the courtesies just yet. After all, she isn’t asking. 

Wynafryd seems to be studying her just as closely and takes her time before her face shifts slightly into a smile. “As I said, whatever you need.”

“And that would be what, exactly,” Wylla chimes in, bringing herself a few steps in front of her sister.

Sansa looks at Jon then, and the concern on his face matches her own. Then she turns back to the sisters and addresses them both. “We wondered if we might speak about that in a more private way. It isn’t that we mistrust your guards, or our own, only that the information is of a… _personal_ nature and we'd appreciate it if we could disclose it to only the two of you, my ladies.” 

Wylla looks back at her, but Wynafryd is still watching Sansa. Then her eyes turn to Jon, who’s gentle concern is aimed at his sister and this convinces her to comply. “If your brother would agree to leave his sword in the care of one of your men, I’d be happy to excuse everyone from the Court.” 

Sansa looks at him and nods, and Wynafryd does the same to her reluctant guards. Jon hands his sword to Brienne, a choice that surprises her and Sansa both, but he does it so automatically as if he hadn’t even considered anyone else to trust with protecting this possession.

Everyone filters outside of the hall, but they stay close and silent, listening for signs of distress by the doors. All sworn swords crowded into this anteroom share identical looks of caution as their young rulers summit together in secret. 

***

Wynafryd and Wylla walk down the short steps of the platform and join Jon and Sansa. As they all take a seat at one of the feast tables, Jon looks around at the scenes painted along the walls, ceiling, and floor of this place. It gives him the feeling of being under the sea, surrounded by krakens and sharks and all other manner of creatures from the depths. 

“Our brother, Bran will be joining us soon,” Sansa begins immediately, her voice calling Jon’s attention back like always. “Along with Lord Robin Arryn of the Vale. He is my betrothed, but only a frail boy and we need them both to remain safely here until the fighting is done.” 

“Of course, my lady,” Wynafryd replies. “But forgive me, this doesn’t seem like a secret to be kept from my house guard. Unless, do you intend to keep them hidden in a tower?”

“No, certainly not. That isn’t what must be kept private.” Sansa looks at Jon and he recognizes her reluctance to attempt describing the Three-Eyed Raven, so he decides to try.

“Our brother is very valuable, and not just to us because we love him. Although, that is crucial. He isn’t as valuable to the Boltons as Sansa, as Ramsay needs her alive to hold his claim on our home. In fact, Ramsay is likely to want him killed as soon as possible. Bran's refused his place as Lord of Winterfell, but I expect that won't matter to Lord Bolton.” He sighs with regret at this truth, then continues. “But Bran’s life is valuable to the realm, maybe more valuable than anyone’s now.”

The sisters glance at each other for a moment, and then Wynafryd closes her eyes in a way that suggests to Sansa she is giving her sister permission. “Is this about the White Walkers?” Wylla asks directly.

Jon’s jaw opens in surprise but then remembers he sent ravens informing all of the great houses of the threat to come, and requesting men be sent to the Wall. He just never thought anyone had believed it. Then he remembers reading through scroll after scroll from lords declining that request, just before he’d been stabbed. Had Manderly sent one in support? Had he not gotten to that scroll before he was murdered? 

Jon hears Sansa’s voice strangely explaining the Great War and realizes he hadn’t responded to Wylla’s question. He shakes his head a little and brings his focus back to the conversation as she says, “We must retake Winterfell and unite the North in order to face what is coming for us all.”

“Our brother went beyond the Wall, led by a greenseer who took him to a great weirwood tree in the Haunted Forest,” Jon reveals. “When he came back to us, he said he had become the Three-Eyed Raven. It may sound strange, but he has visions of all that has ever happened, throughout time, and he alone can guide us to defeating the Night King and his army.” 

Wynafryd looks to her sister, who looks frightened rather than suspicious, and then turns to Sansa.

“There are ways he can prove it to you, once he arrives. But I would avoid this, if you can find a way to just trust us, as it can be somewhat… unsettling,” Sansa tries to warn them kindly. “He may eventually give you information that proves crucial, and if he does you must believe him.” 

“Will you not be staying safely in White Harbor as well, my lady?” Wylla asks Sansa suddenly. The subject of Bran’s ability seems of no further concern.

“Sansa will be coming North with me when I rejoin our armies.” All three sisters turn to him at the same time, recognizing the tone of possession men often don’t realize they are revealing. Women never miss it, though. 

Wynafryd turns back to Sansa and skillfully deflects by saying, “Thank you for trusting us with this information. You have our word that it will be kept within this room, and that you have the protection and loyalty of house Manderly in this war, and the wars still to come.” 

Sansa smiles at her and the two women share a nod. “We appreciate your discretion and I look forward to working with you both in this great alliance. I hope that it can be a great friendship as well.” 

***

Brienne looks across the room at Jaime who is the recipient of multiple looks of disgust from the Manderly guards between them. They might hold regard for the Starks, but there is no love for the Lannisters here. Brienne remembers her own struggle convincing people of her allegiances against the burden of associating with Lions. When he finds her eyes, the tension in his face relaxes a little and she nods kindly to him.

Jaime smirks at her and glances back around at the rest of the crowd in the room. Bronn and Podrick have positioned themselves near the outer door leading to the Castle Stair, and the Knights of the Vale have all positioned themselves nearest the hall entrance. He blinks back to glimpse Brienne again and startles a little to find that her eyes haven’t moved from him. 

They stare at each other for a while, strangely, as the quiet room around them stirs with the anxiety of soldiers. Brienne’s forehead flinches at the realization that neither of them are looking away, and she sees the corners of Jaime’s mouth tighten. She can feel a warmth in her cheeks start to rise, but her eyes remain unfaltering. 

The details of the space around them start to fade into blurred smears of color as they keep their eyes concentrated on each other. Jaime hears his heart beat in the quiet room and it is so loud he wonders if she can hear it, too. He sees it now, clearer than he ever has. This is the woman he loves. She is his warrior and friend. She is so much more than he could ever be, but when he is with her it makes him more than he ever was. 

He reminds himself that he will be leaving her again, soon. At first it makes his gut sink, a flash of familiar shame washing over him, telling him he will only ever deserve to lose the ones he loves. But she keeps staring at him, pulling him back to that man he wants so desperately to be for her. It stirs him, filling him with the valor of a knight once again, and he decides he won’t leave for Dragonstone without telling her how he feels.

***

When the doors to the Merman's Court open, the guards part, making way for their ladies. Jon and Sansa follow Wynafryd and Wylla past the soldiers as their hosts lead them to the guest wing of New Castle. Wynafryd explains that she will order food and baths brought to their rooms as it is already well into the evening. 

“You’ll forgive us for not hosting any feasts while you are with us, my lady,” she tells Sansa, turning back and falling in place beside her so they can speak directly as they walk. “We are attempting to draw as little attention to your visit as possible, though I’m sure word of our true allegiances will travel quickly enough.”

“We thank you, Lady Wynafryd, I understand the danger our being here causes,” Sansa offers sincerely. She notices Jon has moved in front of her and is walking with Wylla now. “We won’t be burdening you for long. As soon as our brother and Lord Robin are settled, we will be continuing on to Winterfell.” 

“We look forward to having House Stark back in Winterfell. After all, winter is coming and the North suffers, my lady. Tomorrow, I'd hoped we could hold a more formal meeting to discuss the state of things, as well as how we can help.”

Sansa nods gratefully, and then watches Jon again who seems fascinated with the broken shields and rusted swords that decorate the walls of the otherwise lavish castle. Wylla takes his arm, pointing to the objects of his attention, and Sansa feels her face flush slightly.

“Many of these date back to before we were Northerners,” Wylla tells Jon. "Some thousand years before the Conquest." If he noticed her touching him, it isn’t obvious to Sansa, as he remains fascinated by the artifacts. When they come upon the bearded bust of a terrifying warrior, Wylla explains that the figure once had a massive tailfin, and stood at the prow of a ship. “Mermen like this one currently head the fleet that is hidden up the White Knife.”

Jon stops fully and turns to her, his eyes wide. “How many?” he gasps optimistically. 

“Twenty-three war galleys,” she beams. The happiness this brings to his face makes him look as if he might grab the girl and kiss her, but instead he turns to Sansa, who reminds herself to relax her expression just in time.

“Did you hear that?” he asks her, and Sansa smiles kindly at Wylla.

“That’s wonderful, my lady.” 

“Our cousin Marlon is the commander of the fleet, and he will be joining us tomorrow at the council meeting. But tonight, I’m sure you too would like to get some rest.” Wynafryd holds her hand out to a door with a brass handle. “Lady Sansa, I believe you will find this chamber adequate.” 

Sansa nods, “Thank you again, Lady Wynafryd. Lady Wylla.” 

Wylla still has her arm around Jon’s and Sansa does everything she can to keep her face from revealing how ill it is making her feel. _Stop being so childish,_ she tells herself. 

“I can escort your brother to his chamber,” the green haired woman offers, “if it please, my lady.” Sansa notices just how beautiful this woman is, her eyes as hypnotic as they are examining. And her body… “How about this one?” 

To all of their surprise, Wylla points to the door directly across the corridor from Sansa’s. Wynafryd raises an eyebrow at her sister, who is smirking, but Jon doesn’t see either woman’s silent communication.

“Sansa!” he shouts, rushing to her. He sees the color start to drain rapidly from her face, but before he can even ask if she is feeling alright, her eyes roll back and her body begins to fall.


	45. Future

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The first night in White Harbor

Sansa opens her eyes again and feels Jon’s arms holding her, his voice calling her name. She looks around, and his face comes into focus. “What happened?” she asks quietly.

Jon lifts her to her feet again and she steadies herself by holding onto his arm. The Manderly sisters are still standing in the corridor, only now they are staring at her with great concern.

“You fainted,” Jon says.

“Fetch the maester,” Wynafryd tells her sister. But before she can follow the order, Sansa stops her.

“No, please. That won’t be necessary. I’m fine.” Sansa releases Jon’s arm to prove that she can stand on her own, and she tries to smile.

Jon sees the color start to return to her face, but still worries. “Sansa, maybe it would be a good idea to have him take a look at you.”

“No, no. Truly, I’m fine.” Sansa starts to feel a bit embarrassed by all of the fuss. “It’s been a long day, and I haven’t eaten much. I just need some food and sleep.”

Jon gives her a frustrated glare, but then nods. “If you still feel ill tomorrow, promise me you will see the maester.”

Sansa nods, and then smiles to their hosts. “I’m sorry for the fright.”

“Perhaps we should get you settled,” Wynafryd offers, opening the door to Sansa’s chamber. 

They all file in and Sansa takes in the beautiful room, rich with dark green and blue décor. The bed sits at the far end of her room, and is canopied with glimmering fishing nets, flecked with silver. Next to it is a dressing nook with a full-length mirror framed in cherry wood, and a vanity lined with sea shells. 

“Your supper should be arriving soon,” Wylla offers. She turns to Jon and adds, “Should I tell them you will be taking your meal with Lady Sansa?”

“Yes, I’d like to stay with her for a bit,” he replies with his eyes still watching Sansa as she takes a seat at the ornate table.

“Very well,” Wynafryd says. “We will leave you to get settled and speak again tomorrow.” 

“Thank you again,” Sansa tells them as the sisters make their way out of the room, “for everything.”

When the door closes behind them, Jon moves next to Sansa and kneels. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

She places a gentle hand on his cheek and smiles her reassurance. “Yes, my love. I promise.”

Jon kisses her softly and soon there is a knock on the door. He lets the servants in and they place trays of covered dishes on the table before them, followed by a maid who draws her a bath near the bed with water so hot it heats the room more than the hearth behind her.

When they’ve left, Jon lifts the silver tops and they take in the sight of what is considered a quick supper in the New Castle. Plates of fruit and cheese, brown soup with green herbs floating on the surface, and lobster tails with hot butter are among the spread.

He sits beside her and watches expectantly until she brings the soup to her lips. Sansa hums sweetly at the flavor and Jon can see her color improving further with the intake of nourishment. Finally, she looks at him and lifts an annoyed eyebrow.

“Are you just going to sit there and stare at me, or do you plan to eat as well?”

Jon smiles a little and then brings a plate of lobster in front of him. They eat in silence for a while, as they both realized just how nice it is to be indoors and warm, filling their bellies with food not cooked over a campfire. 

“What do you think of them?” Sansa asks eventually, sitting back in her chair and placing a soothing hand on her full stomach. 

Jon wipes his mouth on a cloth napkin as he considers his answer. “They seem trustworthy and Father always spoke of the crucial alliance between our houses.” She wants a little more, he sees. Sansa is better at reading people and whatever she wants to address about the Manderly sisters is already fixed in her mind, so he decides he might as well just let her get to it. “What do you think?”

“They’re both young, and very beautiful,” she begins before taking a sip of water.

“And?”

“Well, they are the heirs to White Harbor. It’s just strange they haven’t married yet.” 

Jon realizes she is right. “I suppose they have their reasons.”

“Yes, I’m just curious what those reasons are.” Sansa watches Jon, trying not to make it obvious that she is, but he simply looks bored with the topic. She yawns herself, and then asks, “Should we discuss what we want to address at the council meeting tomorrow?”

“Over breakfast,” he laughs. “You need to get some sleep.” 

Sansa scrunches her face in protest. “No, not yet. I wanted more time alone with you.”

Jon leans in closer and kisses her slowly. Sansa deepens it, pressing her lips harder against him, before parting them and letting her tongue slip through to his. His hands begin to trail down her body as he explores her open mouth, but then her mouth widens even further and he laughs as she tries her best to suppress the second yawn. 

“To bed with you,” he orders before kissing her chastely on the forehead one more time. 

Sansa stands as he moves to leave, but when he opens the door Podrick is just outside of it, his fist posed to knock. He blushes a little, again being face to face with Jon, only this time Jon blushes too. Sansa’s revelation that Podrick knows about them is written all over his face.

“M’lady,” Pod mumbles, turning to Sansa. “I just wanted to let you know that I will be keeping guard tonight. Lady Brienne is with Ser Jaime strategizing for Dragonstone, but asked me to tell you that she can come if you need her.”

“That won’t be necessary,” Sansa smiles at him. “I’m happy to know you’ll be watching out for me tonight.” 

Both boys grow even more red and Jon says goodnight, pushing past the squire to make for his own chamber. Sansa finds it incredibly amusing, but still has pity for poor Pod. “Thank you, for all your kindness, Podrick. I hope you know I am forever grateful to you.” At this she smiles so sincerely that he almost forgets the remainder of his task.

Podrick nods slightly and then carries her trunk inside, placing it on a bench at the foot of her bed. “Will you be needing anything else, Lady Sansa?” The awkward look on his face tells her he’s asking if she needs him to abet her in any improprieties she might have planned for the evening. 

 

***

 

Sansa licks her lips and spreads her thighs wider. She can feel herself soaking the silk sheets with her release, the pleasure flowing from her stronger than ever before. Then his fingers leave her and his mouth swallows the last of her flood in long laps. She is still twitching when he works his way back up her body, his hunger unsatisfied, and he captures her mouth.

With his lips on her, her cry is muffled, vibrating down through his throat as his hard length sinks fully into her. Sansa's hands grip his shoulders and he slides out and back in, setting her sensitive flesh on fire. His mouth moves to her neck and he pulls her between his teeth, causing her nails to slide down his back and break skin. The searing pain jolts his hips forward in a thrust that catches her scream in her throat. He waits a moment, looking at her, but she has no patience and grinds her ankles into the mattress, thrusting herself upward. 

“Please, Jon,” she moans and it brings his hips back into motion instantly. Jon continues to watch her face, straining, and growing lewder with every lunge of his body into hers. 

Her hands move to his chest and she presses against him, trying to keep herself in place as he pushes her further up the bed with every thrust. 

“Sansa,” he growls and her eyes focus on his. His face is hard, almost furious, and the danger in him thrills her. “ _Sansa_ ,” he cries again. 

She sees the desire in him, the need to unleash himself completely and she bites her lip. “Yes, Jon,” she moans. “Harder, _mmm_ … harder!”

He takes her hands and lifts them above her head, pinning them to the lush pillow beneath her. He presses her thighs back with his and secures himself on his knees, driving into her with total abandon. Her screams fill the castle, like a wild animal howling in the woods, and he feels the strength of her muscles gripping him everywhere. 

He strains as she begins to close down around him. “Come for me,” he snarls.

“Yes, oh gods Jon!” She is writhing now, her body moving independent of his relentless pounding. Her hips twist in circles and her heels lift up, stretching her legs out straight above them as she releases the loudest, longest cry yet.

He stops, just for a moment, to feel the full pulse of her orgasm throbbing around his cock and then resumes his assault on her body. He hooks one of her knees over his shoulder, digging his fingers into her thigh as he slams her harder. 

“ _Gods_ , Sansa,” he begs. He is crazed, wanting nothing else but to possess every single part of her being. 

He pushes forward, bringing his chest down to hers and keening against her ear. One hand grips her hair tightly and the other stretches her leg higher, pressing her knee to her shoulder as his cock bursts inside her. He buries himself as deep as he can as the remaining pulses of life thrust into her womb, then they stay motionless, aside from the heaving of their chests as they gasp to find breath. Slowly, he releases her thigh and Sansa lowers her leg, wrapping it lazily around him. His lips meet her neck, as he is still too weak to lift even his head, and he kisses her softly, enjoying the feel of his spent cock resting within her. 

She almost falls blissfully asleep but then hears him whisper, “My beautiful wife…”

 

Sansa opens her eyes and feels the lack of him immediately as she sits up. Her hair is damp and her core aches with emptiness and desire. She looks down at herself, naked and still sitting in the bath with the warm water caressing her body, and she realizes she must have fallen asleep.

She lays back again, letting the images come back to her. _If felt so real…_ Her thighs press together as the memory of him inside her, taking her without restraint, fills her with lust. She brings a hand to her thigh, sliding it between her legs as she imagines it is him touching her.

She licks her lips as she spreads herself open with her fingers, exploring her delicate skin with light touches and studying the different sensations that emerge at each detail of her form. When she brushes the tip of her middle finger over her clit, a surge of pleasure rushes through her so intensely that her curiosity becomes overpowered by need. The memory of his fingers touching her, his tongue tasting her, makes her press harder. She strokes herself in a circle and then dips her fingers lower, pushing into herself as she remembers the way he took her. 

_My beautiful wife…_ she hears him say, and this stills her hand. Her lust gives way instantly to the pounding of her heart as she is overcome by another kind of desire. 

Sansa pulls her hand out of the water and sits up fully, trying to remember more details of the dream. She looks around and sees the hearth burning low beside her bed. Then she remembers the heat of the fire in her dream and looks at the cold wall opposite her feet. _The fire was over there._ As the memory comes back more clearly she sees the carved etching of the mantle, a pattern she’d memorized as a child when she would sit there with her mother, sewing. 

_Mother and Father’s room?_

 

***

 

Brienne stands over a map sprawled out on the table in Jaime’s chamber. He watches her closely, but the words she offers have faded into the background as he finds himself fascinated with the blond wave of hair falling over her brow. She glances at him, but he quickly moves his eyes downward, pretending to be paying attention to the map. Instead, his focus now shifts to her hands, so strong and yet agile.

“Ser _Jaime,_ ” she snaps. He looks up at her again and her blue eyes are piercing through him. “Are you alright?”

His straightens himself in his chair and pulls his attention fully back to their conversation. “Of course,” he scoffs. “Why wouldn’t I be?” 

“Because I’ve just told you the Night King has made it past the wall and is marching on the Last Hearth and you said, ‘Uh huh.’” Her disgusted and drawn-out articulation of the phrase conveys her irritation.

Jaime’s eyes grow wide with panic for a moment, until the roll of Brienne’s eyes clarify that her proclamation wasn’t actually true. “Sorry,” he mumbles, sitting up more attentively. 

Brienne takes a seat and her face relaxes into a softer expression. “Are you worried about seeing Tyrion?” 

He shrugs and looks at his golden hand, finding it harder to stare at her when she’s watching. But she reaches for him, pulling his softer hand into her grip, and his eyes return to her. Jaime’s heart leaps and he takes a deep breath in response. His mouth opens to speak the words he hasn’t formed yet, but a knock on his door interrupts. 

Their hands part as he rises to answer the intrusion. It is his supper, and as it is brought to the table Brienne stands again, too. 

“Stay,” he accidentally commands. “There is plenty of food. Eat with me while we finish discussing things.” _But which things?_ he asks himself. Suddenly, he wonders whether the lion’s courage has abandoned him.

Brienne nods and retakes her seat. They eat together, continuing to trade knowledge and opinions regarding Dragonstone and Targaryens, and Jaime silently warms at the way she pulls his lobster free of its shell for him. He tells her his plan for convincing Tyrion of the threat they face, but when the topic of the Three-Eyed Raven comes up, they are divided.

“It will be difficult enough to convince them there are dead men marching on the Seven Kingdoms,” Brienne worries. “How do you even begin to explain Lord Stark’s… sight?” 

“Perhaps he can give me some gem of intimate knowledge about my brother and his queen to frighten them with,” he smirks. 

Brienne seems even less sure of this, but nods. “I do think you should consult him once he’s here. This is his mission he’s sending you on. I think at the very least you deserve a little more information on how to go about it.” 

Jaime wipes his mouth and places his napkin on his plate, having eaten his fill for the night. “You don’t need to be so worried about me. I’ve made it this far. Although, I did kill her father. I suppose that will be a sensitive subject to address.” 

She scolds him again with her face, making him smile with an arrogance that reminds her of their earlier days together, and she laughs. He hadn’t been kind to her then, but she admits to herself that his company had been amusing, in an irritatingly relentless sort of way. The fondness with which she thinks about those days now is still surprising to her, considering he’d been her prisoner and they both suffered quite a bit on that journey. 

“Do you remember the bath?” she hears herself ask, still partially inside her own reverie. 

At this, he laughs and replies, “Every detail.” 

Brienne blushes as the image of his naked body forces its way into her mind, and then the memory of her own body standing bare before his eyes. She blinks a few times to regather her point.

“You need to find a way to explain it to her, the way you did to me,” she continues. “Don’t insult her, but let her know what was at stake and why you did it. If she is at all reasonable, she will recognize you for what you are, as long as you show it to her.”

“And what am I, exactly?”

“A hero.” 

He scoffs bitterly at this. “Should I explain my heroics before or after I tell them I was sent on this mission by the boy I tried to murder?”

She looks at him with sadness for a moment, but then decides she won’t allow it. “Perhaps you ought to leave that part out,” she smirks. Then he smiles again and she feels herself getting warmer. 

 

***

 

Sansa takes the dressing robe from her bed and pulls it on. She opens her door quietly and steps out into the cold, dark corridor with bare feet and sees Podrick sitting near the end of the passage, sleeping with his head propped against the wall. As she crosses the space to Jon’s door, he jerks his head up, looking around and wiping drool from his chin. When he sees her, she give him a small smile and he nods, settling himself back down.

Without knocking, she enters and the room is only blackness, but she can hear Jon snoring softly. Then his form beneath his furs begins to take shape as her eyes adjust to the dark. Sansa takes off her robe and silently slips into the bed next to him, his warmth surrounding her instantly, and for a moment she just watches him.

He is lying on his back, his beautiful face as peaceful as she’s ever seen it. His strong arms rest atop the furs and his bare chest rises and falls with his deep sleeping breaths. She loves him so much it fills her with a sense of power, as if this feeling alone could defeat any army, or gods, or even death. 

Jon shifts, rolling to his side, and his arms pull her instinctively to him. He whispers her name as he nuzzles his face into her neck and it sends a jolt of heat through her body. Then he tenses slightly and his breath changes, telling her he is awake.

He lifts his head in confusion to look at her and then croaks, “What are you doing here?”

“I just wanted to be near you,” she whispers, smoothing back a curl from his forehead.

Jon rests against her again and weakly scolds, “You’re supposed to be sleeping.”

“I tried,” she smiles. “But my dreams were too stirring.”

He looks at her again, concern seizing the peace from his eyes, but she tucks her bottom lip beneath her teeth and looks at him with a desire that tells him her dreams were not unpleasant. He smirks a little and then touches her face, tracing his fingers along her temple and down to the curve of her jaw as his thumb brushes over her lips. She catches it, pulling him into her mouth and sucking gently as her tongue teases the tip of his finger. 

A rumble comes from deep within his throat and he pulls his hand away, replacing it with his mouth. His tongue pushes past her lips and she is breathless as he moves his hand down her body, pressing and holding her breast until he feels her nipple stiffen beneath the linen shift she is wearing. Sansa moans and she places her hand on top of his, pushing it away from her sensitive breast. Then she guides him down, bringing his touch between her thighs where she needs it. 

“Sansa,” he groans into her mouth as he feels how wet she is. 

His fingers tease her with patient indulgence as she slides her hand up his arm. Then she grips the back of his flexed muscle and opens her legs wider, begging him for more. He pushes two fingers in, filling her with his thick touch and she breaks their kiss as her head pushes back into the pillow. 

Jon grins at the sight of her desire for him spreading over her face. He works her harder with his hand as her hips start to push against him, then he takes her lips again. Sansa wraps her hands around his neck, bringing her fingers up through his hair the way he likes and he can feel her breath growing chaotic as she loses focus on their kiss. He moves his tongue to her neck, just below her ear, and closes his eyes as the sounds of her moans and slick body fill his mind. 

She grips him with her body, her fingers starting to pull too hard on his locks, and he rocks against her thigh. Jon presses his thumb to her clit and deepens his reach inside her until he feels her entire body peak. When she falls limp, he moves his hand to her backside and pulls her to him in a tight embrace. 

“I love you,” she whispers with her cheek pressed to his. She feels him smile and he kisses her neck again softly as she strokes gentle circles on the base of his neck, still catching her breath.

Then she lowers her arms, intent on bringing him to release next, but his body remains unshifting in his tight press, blocking her access. “Jon,” she whispers, nudging his hips a little, but he doesn’t answer. He doesn’t move either and she is confused, but then his breath hums heavily in her ear and she realizes he has fallen back asleep. 

Sansa smiles, turning her face to kiss him softly, and then nuzzles down into his arms, joining him in a peaceful slumber.

 

***

 

Brienne picks at the tiny leaves on a berry, her attention focused on the fire warming her bootless feet. They are both stretched out on the floor in front of it, having made their way there at some point during the night. The conversation between them had continued longer than either intended, but as they talked about their plans, and then the past, and now the future, there never seemed to come a natural ending.

“And what if this war ends, and Sansa is safe at home with her family? Do you intend to stand guard by her side until you are old and gray?” Jaime pictures what it would be like to grow old with her.

“There will always be another war, Ser Jaime.” She sighs, tossing the stem into the fire before devouring the sweet fruit. 

He watches her suck the red stain from her finger and wishes he were doing it instead. “That’s not anyway to live,” he tells her. “Don’t you want more?”

“Such as?” Brienne looks at him then, feeling herself flush at the intensity on his face. 

Jaime sits up, shifting himself closer to the fire, closer to her. “A family, someone to love?” 

Her mouth opens as if to answer, too quickly, but instead she says nothing. Their eyes find each other again, the way they had earlier that day, only now there is no sea of soldiers between them. 

Jaime leans toward her, so slowly that she hardly notices he’s moving until she feels the warmth of his breath brush her skin. Her senses are overwhelmed and she finds she can’t move or speak. She only just begins to notice the light starting to rise through the window behind him, and then his kisses her, at last.

She feels the rush of a young girl in love as her lungs fill with him, his nervous lips shaking against her own. But then she brings her hand to the back of his neck and pulls him closer, ready to claim what she wants. The kiss deepens with the force of their latent desire, but then she pulls back suddenly and gasps, “Podrick!”

“Jaime,” he corrects. 

Her brow twists in confusion, but then she understands and rolls her eyes again as she lifts herself to her feet. 

“I meant, I need to go relieve Podrick from his guard.” 

Jaime stands too, watching her gather her shoes in a fluster. His pulls his lips together to keep from laughing and says, “He’s fine, you don’t need to leave. Besides, it will save you from having to _listen_.” 

Brienne flinches at his comment and gives him a warning glare as she pulls on her boots, then she moves to open the door. 

“Brienne!” he practically shouts, grabbing her hand just as she steps out of his room. 

She looks back at him and sees his eyes pleading for something, an answer to his unspoken question. Then she moves back to him, and kisses him again slowly before she leaves.


	46. Wolf Dreams

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa discuss the reality of a future together.

Jon feels himself lifted out of his dream but doesn’t yet open his eyes, trying to drift back to it as the memory starts to disappear. The details slip away but the feeling in his body remains, as he is floating on a cloud of bliss. Then he starts to feel what’s real again, his arm around her, holding her close, the length of her long body pressed up against his side. Her lips brush against his ear and the tips of her fingers are trailing lightly up and down the front of his smallclothes. 

“Mmmf,” he groans as he brings his hand down and presses hers against him more fully, wrapping her hand around the line of his erection. He is too sensitive to endure any teasing. He pulls her hand up and down a few times desperately, then Sansa squeezes him with enough strength of her own and he lets his hand fall away.

“Tell me what you were dreaming about,” she whispers seductively. Then she pulls the edge of his ear into her teeth as she speeds her grope. The friction of the thin layer of linen between his skin and her touch is almost painful and he turns his head to kiss her.

“You,” he tells her between devouring her lips. “Your body.”

He starts to roll on top of her but she stops him, taking her hand from his cock and pushing him onto his back again. Then she sits up on her knees, watching him watch her, as she pulls her shift off and tosses it to the floor. 

Jon takes a deep breath, frozen in the image of her as Sansa lifts herself up and settles her knees around his hips. She holds herself extended high above him, and he runs his fingers down the long line from her shoulder to her breast, down her ribs and belly, through her curls hovering over him, and the inside of her thigh. 

“This body?” she asks, looking down at him. His eyes return to her face, and he nods breathlessly. 

He slides his hands back up to her waist as she lowers herself down, seating her naked body against his hardness. Sansa takes his hands and moves them up to her breasts. He groans again as she begins to move herself back and forth, letting his hands and cock stimulate her until she has soaked his thin underclothes beyond all decency. 

“Tell me about _your_ dream,” he demands as his grip on her grows more urgent. “From last night, before you came to me.” Sansa smiles and closes her eyes, arching into his touch as she rides him and remembers. 

“You were fucking me,” she whispers crudely, “ _hard_.” His hands on her breasts tighten to the point of pain and she covers them with her own. Then she opens her eyes and sees the same danger in his face as she had in her dream. 

“What else?”

She whines, unable to tolerate his clutch anymore, and pulls him away from her tits. She leans forward and brings his arms up over his head, pushing them into the pillow. “You held me like this,” she tells him, pressing down on his wrists to demonstrate. 

He bucks himself up under her and his eyes glaze over for a moment, helplessly turned on. Sansa lowers one hand between them, making quick work of his laces, and Jon nearly weeps when her hand touches his bare skin. She strokes him beneath his clothes for a moment as she brings her lips down to his mouth. 

Jon wraps his hands in her hair, pulling the kiss harder from her mouth. He feels her push his smallclothes down, freeing him completely, then she brings her heat back to rest directly against him. His cry breaks their lips apart and Sansa presses her mouth against his ear, purring, “You called me your wife.”

Sansa lifts herself back up, her hands pressed to his chest for support as he bucks her again. He watches her face with fascination as he’s never seen her like this before. She tosses her head, causing her long flaming hair to wrap around her throat and her eyes grow wild as she starts to grind her sex harder against him. Her nose flares and her lips part while her teeth remain clenched. For a moment, Jon thinks she might howl. 

“Gods, I want to be inside of you again.” Jon hadn’t intended to say that out loud, but he is beyond maintaining any grip on his thoughts now. Sansa’s eyes widen with desire, with _hunger_. 

She moans, begging, “Tell me, Jon, tell me what you want.” She starts moving faster and he looks down at her riding him. His straining cock shines with her lust as she pleasures herself against him. 

“I want to fuck you,” he growls. Jon grabs her hips and pulls her against him with harder, longer strokes. “I want to _fill_ you.” The edge of him slips across her entrance with each thrust and all he can think about is catching her at just the right angle and pushing in. Twice, he almost does. 

Sansa feels the temptation getting too strong and she leans back, pulling her hips down until she is seated safely against his base. He feels a sharp sting as cold air hits the wet, sensitive skin she has abandoned. But then she wraps him in her hand and starts to pump. 

Jon breathes a little easier with the shift in her tactics, and he props himself up on his elbows to watch her. Sansa spreads her legs out further and leans back, supporting herself on his shin with her free hand. 

The view is incredible. He can see her fisting him expertly and behind that is her open cunt aching for him. Jon brings his thumb to her pink skin and pries her open more. He stares at her dark, glistening abyss and is entranced with the desire to fall into it. _Mine._ “Mine.”

His word causes her hips to lung forward involuntarily and his thumb is captured within her. Her hand pauses, only for a moment, with the shock of his sudden entry. Then he pushes his thumb in further, watching her swallow him as she starts to rock her hips in a pace matching her strokes. He feels himself getting close and her panting tells him she is, too. 

“Tell me, Jon,” she begs again. “Tell me what you want to do to me.”

He pulls his thumb out and grabs her by the ass with both hands, forcing her against him brutally. His grip stretches around her cheeks, pulling and spreading her wide until his fingertip pushes up against her tight ring. “I want to do everything to you, Sansa. Things you can't image. I want to own you. I want my seed spilling out of you at every moment of the day.” Her current is getting stronger and he jerks her against him hard. “I want…”

She is starting her hit her edge, grinding hard, pumping him right up against her desperate flesh. They are pressed so tightly together they could be one body. “Yes, Jon. Tell me!”

“You Sansa,” he cries louder now. They’ve both forgotten any caution over being heard. “I want you, all of you. I want your beautiful body on my bastard cock, taking me like I’m yours and you are mine.”

Sansa feels her body burst open in a way she’s never felt before, a pleasure that rips open a part of her buried so deep she had forgotten it. “I want to give you sons,” he moans and her eyes open wide. “And daughters. A pack of them.” 

Her orgasm rushes from her in unrelenting waves and his eyes hold her prisoner. She feels hot tears start to fall down her straining face and whispers, “Yes, Jon. Please.”

His end comes with her words and his release springs forth, shooting up like a fountain and she remembers the way it felt as it happened inside her. The force of it is surprising, as is the amount, and she continues to stare in fascination as it drips back down over her hand and her belly.

Jon watches her, unable to speak. He wants to pull her close, but her examination of him makes him wait. She looks at him then and her eyes are no longer wild, but serious and hard. With the fire of lust cooling, he begins to feel the heaviness of guilt sink into his chest for what he’d said. 

He waits, hoping she will speak, but then she lets him go and his body recoils at the separation. She lifts herself off of him and then stands. Still unable to move, Jon lays naked and alone in his bed as he watches her pull on her robe and cross the room. _Please don’t go._

But she doesn’t head for the door. He sighs with relief as she moves to the silver wash basin near his window. His eyes stay fixed on her as she takes a cloth and soaks it in the water. She wrings it out slowly, taking her time, before running it over her hands and wrists. Though her back is to him, he sees her reach down, parting her robe as she cleanses herself of him. Then she rinses the cloth, kneading it slowly with her fingers beneath the water, and squeezes out it’s excess once again before returning to him with it in her hand. 

Jon moves at last, stretching his hand out to take the rag from her but she doesn’t give it over. Instead, she sits on the edge of his bed and begins to wipe him down. He feels vulnerable as she washes him, like the night after the battle at Moat Cailin. She doesn’t look at him, concentrating on her ritual as though it were of some importance. But he knows that it isn’t, not this time. She is avoiding his eyes.

“Sansa,” he pleads, grabbing her wrist to stop her task. She keeps her eyes down and he is desperate to know what she’s thinking. “I’m sorry,” he offers quietly, but this just makes her pull her arm out of his grasp. She moves back across the room to replace the cloth in the basin silently. 

Jon sinks further into this cold feeling and he can’t bear to be so naked any longer. He sits up and pulls the furs over him, then his hands push against his face. Sansa returns to the bed and sits on the opposite side, keeping her back to him. 

“Please talk to me.” His voice is filled with frustration and Sansa knows it is an attempt at hiding his fear. Jon sees her head fall forward slightly and it makes his stomach tighten with pain. Just as he is about to give up hope, he hears her voice quietly slipping from her lips.

“What are we going to do, Jon?”

He wants to give her the answer, but he hardly understands the question. All he wants is to be with her, forever. They will find a way, he tells himself, as he has so many times before. But the truth of it, he knows, isn't so simple. Then he sees her lift a hand to her face and push something away, tears. Jon shifts his body closer to her but she pulls her arms around herself and shakes her head. He wants to bring her into his arms but instead he just releases a deep sigh and confesses, “I don’t know.”

Her back and shoulders start to shake, despite her attempts to maintain control, and the tears begin to pour from her in streams. He aches with the distance between them, made so much more agonizing following their intimacy only moments ago. 

“Tell me what to do,” he begs. Part of him is asking the gods, but she is his god now, and he needs her guidance. “I’ll do anything for you, _anything._ Just tell me.”

Finally, Sansa turns to look at him. Her eyes are wet and frightened, but of what? Of him? “What if…” she begins, but then she turns away again and shakes her head.

Jon moves to her at last and pulls her face back to him with his gentle hand. “Sansa,” he whispers to her softly. “Sweet girl, please. Just say it. You can say anything to me, I promise.” Her eyes search him as if she isn’t sure and it makes his heart sink with fear for a moment, but then he narrows his eyes and makes her see the truth in them. 

She drops her forehead to his and closes her eyes. “You’ll think me a hateful, selfish monster. It’s a betrayal to think it, much less say the words.”

“If you’re a monster, then so am I. We can burn in hell together if that’s what it takes.”

“It might.”

Jon lifts his eyes to her again and she sits back. He waits, seeing she has agreed to speak her mind, but that doesn’t make it any easier for her to get the words out. 

***

Lady Brienne finds her way to Sansa’s chamber eventually. Her head is spinning so much that she’d made a few wrong turns, and as she enters the correct corridor, she approaches Pod without realizing he is standing by the wrong door. 

She nods to him, only taking notice for a moment that he is incredibly red, and goes to knock on the door, but Podrick stops her. It is only then that she steps back and looks from one side of the hallway to the other. Her glare returns to his cast-down face for only a flash before she crosses to Sansa chamber and enters without warning, for none is needed as she knows it is not occupied. The door closes behind her and Podrick breathes again for the first time since he’d heard her stride approaching. 

Brienne sits patiently at the table inside the chamber. Sansa’s room is similar to Jaime’s. Maybe they are all similar. She couldn’t know as she has yet to enter her own. _Perhaps I’ll ask Lady Sansa about the décor in Jon’s room,_ she thinks bitterly. Her anger is justified, she tells herself. They are putting themselves in danger. It’s reckless. 

Her fists pull together in front of her on the table and she bounces her legs with agitation. Brienne recites her lecture in her mind as she waits for the girl to return. She’d stayed quiet on the matter long enough, and now she is going to say something. It is her duty. She swore to protect her, after all. This is protection.

Brienne blinks a few times, noticing a burning in her eyes. Then she feels herself yawning and it reminds her she hasn’t slept. Her mind returns to Jaime, and she finds it hard to believe they’d stayed up all night talking. Or that he’d kissed her. She replays every moment again, and then every moment before that. When he gave her Oathkeeper. When he fell into her arms. The curve of his back. He eyes… His lips… 

***

Podrick straightens up again quickly as Lady Sansa comes out of Jon’s room. She gives him her usual silent nod, but as she crosses toward her chamber he meekly hastens, “M’lady, wait.”

Sansa turns back to him and he bites the inside of his mouth before he adds, “Lady Brienne is, uh, waiting for you inside.” He sees her eyes widen and then he offers all he can in a consoling frown. 

She straightens herself, pulling her hair behind her shoulders and tightening her robe before she enters the room. Podrick closes his eyes as if to prevent himself from seeing what is about to occur, even though a stone wall stands between him and the scene. He listens for any shouting or crying, though. 

A few moments go by and Lady Sansa comes out of her room again, carrying folded garments and shoes. She closes the door slowly and then holds a finger to her lips, an instruction for Pod to stay quiet. He looks at her with confusion, but when she comes close she whispers, “If she’s looking for me, tell her I will see her at the council meeting later. Jon and I have things to discuss in preparation.”

Without another word Sansa disappears inside Jon’s chamber again and Podrick moves to her door instead. He thinks of knocking, but then opens the door a crack and peeks in. 

His knight is folded over the table, her head resting in the fold of her arms, and Podrick smiles. He takes a fur from the bed and drapes it over Lady Brienne’s shoulders before he returns to his post for another shift. 

***

Jon and Sansa sit by his vast windows, looking out over the city as they break their fast. Podrick had redirected the servants carrying trays in the hall before they could rap on her door and wake the sleeping giant. 

She is dressed in a wool gown, the color of violet ash. It might not have been her preference, if she hadn’t made the selection in a hurried dash. But it will do. 

“We should let them speak first,” she offers. “Find out as much as we can about the state of the people and the plans already in place.” 

He nods at his fork before putting it down without taking the bite. She waits to see if he wants to add anything, but he remains quiet, so she continues. She advises him that he will need to do most of the talking, as she knows little about the actual war strategy, but that she will be watching for opportunities where her contribution would be useful. 

“I want to speak with the sisters after the council about other matters as well.” This finally pulls his attention. “The Boltons have stored most of the food in region within the walls of Winterfell. If something should happen to the stores, none of our people will survive the winter.” Sansa knows that starvation claims more lives than steel, and winter is coming. 

“I want to set up stores here, with regular shipments from the Vale and the Riverlands. Ships should start smuggling food in now and hide it in the Wolf’s Den until the war is won.”

Jon nods in agreement, but then his eyes narrow on her. “Do you think something will happen to the grain? Did you see anything?”

Sansa shakes her head. “No, but Ramsay will use whatever he can as a weapon. I wouldn’t put it past him to burn it all out of sadistic spite once he knows he’s defeated.” 

He can tell there is more to this concern and his continued look of scrutiny tells her as much. She sits back and sighs. “And if the Army of the Dead make it past the Wall,” she begins, but his change in posture silences her. He knows the rest. 

The thought of losing their home after finally winning it back is something neither of them wants to consider. But they both have. They know what is coming, and that this fight will only be the start of what they have to face. Jon softens a little, finding himself appreciating her forethought. White Harbor would be ideal for people to seek refuge in if Winterfell were to fall.

“Sansa,” he whispers and it truly surprises her when he takes her hand. She forces her eyes to remain tearless as she brings them to up to meet his. He opens his mouth to say something, but he can’t find the words.

“Don’t,” she begs as she shakes her head. Then she pulls her hand from his and walks over to the mirror by his bed, re-plaiting her hair one more time. “We have to focus on today, and I don’t want to talk about it anymore right now.”

The conversation had gone about as well as it could have, but that isn’t saying much. They had spoken aloud about their options as they saw them, each one a consideration they had both already thought through on their own. But to discuss it openly left a hard lump in his throat and a heavy stone in her gut.

The first option is to end it. It would be the smartest of them all, but impossible. They both knew it. The second is to run away. It isn’t really an option, though, so they only discussed it to prove to themselves and each other why the third is the only way.

She would marry Robin and her children would be great lords and ladies. And he would love them, look after them, and protect them always. But they would never be able to know he was their father.

Jon felt sick when she explained to him how she had never intended to let Robin bed her. From the moment that her Aunt Lysa told her about the engagement, Sansa had resigned herself to staying childless, unless the sickly boy were to die and she was forced on another. She started to plant ideas back then into the naïve child’s mind of what occurs between a husband and wife, what it means to lay together, to make love, and none of it involved him being inside her. 

It was the foolish plan of a stubborn girl, she can admit that now, but after his mother had died there was nobody left to guide the boy in the ways of the world. Nobody but her and Petyr. Littlefinger had been impressed with her when she told him what she’d been doing, and he started to contribute to the deception. No doubt, he hoped he’d be the one in Jon’s position, passing his own bastards off as noble lords. 

When the discussion had drawn to a painful silence, they ended it. They had said everything that needed to be said, and now they must return to the more important tasks at hand. 

“Should we go?”

Sansa turns to him and he opens the door for her, his eyes now avoiding her again. She straightens herself and fixes her expression from porcelain, to ivory, to steel. Then he follows her into the hall and escorts her to the Merman’s Court.


	47. The Lazy Eel

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa spends time with the Manderly sisters and Jon speaks with Jaime.

As planned, Jon does most of the talking at the war council meeting. In fact, Sansa stopped truly listening once she no longer understood the words spoken between her brother and Ser Marlon, words like sortie and trebuchet. Her mind is now back on the conversation she’d had with Jon about their future.

Her stomach still feels sick and is wound tight. Sansa can’t even look at Jon without imagining it all in her mind. Their children calling him uncle. Feasts in the Great Hall with him still only holding the title of Winterfell’s Bastard. It's starting to make her angry, not just at herself, but everyone else too. 

A part of her recognizes the foolish girl in her rage, but she doesn’t care. She wants to stomp her feet and shout that it isn’t fair. She wants to command them all, her people, the North, the _world_ that she, Sansa Stark, will have what she wants. And what she wants is Jon, to be his wife and queen. Hang the world, and all of its propriety. 

But the world doesn’t just let girls decide what they are going to be. 

She looks at Jon, finally. His weight is carried with such regal authority in this room of strangers, all of whom are captivated by his command of war. They see Ned Stark in him, she’s sure. 

_I’m love him because he is the greatest man who ever lived. Everyone else will love him, too, if they don’t already._

Suddenly the selfishness of her longing smacks her in the face with an open hand of truth. Could she really condemn him to a life such as that, even if he's said he wants it? Would she place her own desires above the realm’s best fighting chance, not just in this war, but in the Great War to come? The people have suffered for too long and what they need now is a leader, a king. And a king needs heirs, trueborn and noble. Jon glances at her and their eyes meet for a moment before he continues, now heatedly debating tactics with Wylla Manderly. 

Sansa gathers her armor around her, telling herself she is strong enough, stronger than she could have ever hoped to be. She's suffered and survived so much in her life, more acquainted with loss than love, to be sure. It must have all been for a reason. Perhaps that reason is so that, when the time comes, she will have the courage to sacrifice her true love for the fate of the people. For the fate of Jon.

She knows he won’t agree, but she can sacrifice his trust too, if that’s what it takes. Sansa will make him hate her if she has to, but first she will tell all of them about her brother’s letter. She will present it to the lords before he has a chance to stop her and she will use the last of her power to name him King in the North, whatever the cost.

“You can’t expect the other houses to join you in this fight. You can hope for it, but until you’ve seen firsthand what Ramsay Bolton is capable of, you won’t know what you are asking them to risk.” Wylla is standing closer to Jon, now. “Our people did not _join_ your cause. We chose this fight for ourselves, long before you gathered your forces.”

“My lady,” Jon urges through the frustrated clench of his teeth. “I assure you my sister has more than informed me-”

“Your sister,” she interrupts, “was the _wife_ of Lord Bolton.” Wylla turns to Sansa now, speaking directly to her rather than about her as if she were not there. “Lady Sansa, I have no doubt you suffered brutally in your marriage. But the hard truth is that your position protected your life. The Northerners have watched their loved ones, their _children_ being murdered, skinned alive in front of there own eyes. They are no longer loyal, or righteous, or honorable. They are afraid.” 

Sansa’s mouth opens slightly but the woman’s words have rendered her unable to find her voice. She knows Jon is watching her, waiting for her to step in and speak. Now is the time when her words would be useful, but she they don't come. 

Wylla turns back to Jon who is beginning to show his anger. Sansa wants to soothe him and tell him not to argue in defense of her, but she’s still frozen. She sees his lip start to curl, but before he can speak, Wylla takes another forceful step toward him. 

“If you want my council,” she tells him steadily, “then here it is. Ask the people to remain in their keeps. Offer them whatever protection and food that you can, but make it known that you will not risk their safety by asking them to join you. Or, better yet, leave them be and continue straight up the White Knife to Winterfell. Get this over with.”

“She’s right,” Sansa hears herself say at last. Jon looks at her again, and so does Wylla. “We already have enough forces, and Ramsay will know he is outnumbered. He’ll stay within the castle for now, but if we spend our time gathering what remains of the Northern forces, he might start sending men to slaughter families before we reach them. He may have started already. Ramsay will do whatever it takes to keep his power, even if it means torturing and killing every person standing between us and him.”

She almost thinks she sees a smile in Wylla’s expression, but then Wynafryd steps forward to mediate. “We will begin sending barges up the river with siege engines tomorrow. Our fleets, our soldiers, and our resources are yours. Please consider our advice and travel by ship to meet your armies. Winter is coming, and there is no more time to waste.”

Jon sighs, glances at Sansa again, and nods. “Thank you, all of you, for your support. We will do as you ask and depart for Winterfell with your fleet as soon as our brother is safely within the castle walls.” 

Sansa watches him carefully, as well as the others at court. They all see him as she does, now. His strength, his courage, and his respect for the people he will lead. Part of her wants to go to him, to embrace him and tell him how much she loves him. But Wylla turns to Jon instead, pulling his attention to only her. The woman still holds a sternness in her face that Jon mirrors with steady caution. Then she holds out her arm to him, keeping her eyes locked on his, and Jon grasps her at the elbow in an oath of allegiance. Wylla does smile then, her grin reaching her eyes in a full display of her enthusiasm and respect for him. Jon nods again and finds himself smiling, too. 

Sansa watches them and can’t help the rising heat of jealousy in her skin. But she forces herself to tolerate it, reminding herself that she will need to learn to love this pain if she is to remain true to her silent vow. Then she pushes the test of her strength further and admits to herself that Wylla would be a good match for Jon. Her beauty is obvious, but her fierce conviction and bravery is just what Jon needs in a wife. He needs someone who can challenge him and push him to be even better than he is on his own. He needs an equal.

The court starts to empty and Sansa looks around for Brienne for the first time since she’d glimpsed her on the way in. She’d needed to stay focused and worried that having to look Brienne in the eyes while processing down the court next to Jon would have thrown her off. But when she spots the blond mop it is moving away from her and out of the hall. 

Sansa brings her focus back to her own task. Jon is speaking with Ser Marlon about the fleet and Sansa approaches the sisters. “My ladies, I wonder if I might beg a few more moments with you to speak about some non-military matters.”

“Of course,” Wynafryd agrees kindly. Wylla, on the other hand, looks somewhat put out. 

Jon takes note of the conversation and starts to excuse himself from Ser Marlon who has just offered him a tour of the barges. Sansa urges him to go ahead though, insisting she can speak on these matters without him. A little too quickly, he agrees and then leaves the women to meet alone.

“I wanted to discuss setting up food stores with shipments coming in from the Riverlands and the Vale,” Sansa continues. “I began organizing a grain share when we were still at the Eyrie, as a recovery effort for after the war. I think it might be crucial to redirect the shipments to White Harbor, for now at least. We don't know how long the wars will wage, and I expect more refugees will flee this way everyday.”

Wynafryd considers this with impressed interest, but Wylla seems distracted and her sister notices. “That sounds like a fine idea,” she offers, politely trying to deflect from Wylla’s inattention. “Lady Sansa, could I interest you in an escort through town while we go over the details? I’m sure Wylla won’t be needed. My sister is a fierce strategist, but I’m afraid these more _administrative_ matters fall outside of her expertise.”

“No they don’t,” Wylla bites defensively.

Wynafryd glares at her now, abandoning her attempts at courtesy. “Forgive me,” she sneers. “What I meant to say is that my sister has no interest and believes she has better things to do, so I’d prefer to excuse her rather than endure her rude sulking.” 

Sansa stifles a chuckle and Wylla rolls her eyes, but then smirks in defeat. Relieved to be relieved, the younger sister disappears in a green flash of hair leaving Sansa and Wynafryd to their outing. 

***

Jon enters the maester’s solar and is surprised to see Jaime Lannister. He is seated at a round oak table with a book open in front of him. Jon looks around, not seeing the maester, then rather abruptly asks, “What are you doing in here?”

Jaime lifts the book cover with annoyance to reveal it is a recorded history of Dragonstone. Jon nods and then looks around again, impatiently.

“Something I can do for you, Snow?”

“I’m looking for the maester. I need to send a raven.” 

Jaime looks down at his book again, turning the page. “He should be back shortly. I could give it to him for you if you want.”

Jon looks at the message in his hand and hesitates. “I’ll wait.” 

Jaime smirks, fully aware of the boy’s continued suspicions of him. Jon stands there in awkward silence for a moment, and just as he decides to leave and come back later, Jaime asks, “Have you got a back-up plan?”

“What do you mean?”

Closing the book, Jaime shoves it aside with irritation. “Well, I've been trying to find something that might help me navigate the terrain or negotiate with dragons, but this mainly discusses the atrocities that family committed against each other while occupying a volcano. Also, apparently the place is magic.”

Jaime stands and puts the book back on its shelf. Then he returns with another mug and fills it with ale for Jon before refilling his own. It takes a moment, but Jon finally sits at the table across from him.

“I could be burned alive by the dragons, or die in an eruption, maybe even sacrificed to the gods with blood magic. All interesting ways to go, I'll admit. But I'm asking, if I fail in this mission to persuade Daenerys Targaryen to join the fight against the Army of the Dead, do you have another plan?” Jaime takes a drink, not expecting an answer. 

Jon drinks too, then admits, "Not really." He takes a moment to reflect on his own words and then adds in earnest, “Just fight.”

To his surprise, Jaime gives him a look of understanding, maybe even respect. Jon knows his own fear is plain on his face, but the memory of the massacre he’d barely escaped is nothing that can be concealed when conjured. Jon drinks again to slow the images rushing for him.

“What are they like?” 

The question comes so quietly that it sends a chill through Jon’s veins. He shakes his head, trying to find a way to describe the magnitude of it, the fate they'll all suffer if he fails. But all he can bring himself to say is, “Terrifying.” 

Jon looks at Jaime and sees fear in his eyes too. True fear. This may be the first time he's seen anyone have such an appropriate response without seeing it for themselves first. It feels so strange to find an ally in Jaime Lannister, of all people. 

“Anything you can tell me about them, about fighting them, I would appreciate. It might help me convince them.” Jaime has such a pleading tone, that Jon immediately responds. 

He tells him about dragonglass, about Valerian steel, and fire. He explains the difference between the White Walkers and their foot soldiers. That they ride dead horses. That they also butcher horses, leaving the pieces sprawled in strange designs across the snow. Jon even draws it. 

“They have a king,” he tells Jaime, “the Night King. He is the one who raised the dead at Hardhome. All of them, thousands all at once. He stared into my eyes as he did it. He wanted me to see the scope of his power, and I did.” 

“Well, that does sound terrifying,” the lion quips. He isn’t dismissive. It is another acknowledgement of what it is they are facing. And how truly fucked they probably are, dragons or not. 

Jon lifts his brow in agreement and takes another drink. The ale must be soothing his defenses somewhat, and he asks, “Why are you really doing this? And don’t tell me it’s out of some oath you made to Catelyn Stark.” Jon’s tone is curious and wry, but not threatening. 

“I left Cersei,” Jaime begins, completely adjusting Jon’s attention. This is nowhere near where he thought this was going to go. “I did love her once, truly. I've loved her all my life, only her, for so long. But when Tommen died, our last boy, I suppose something just… severed," he looks at his hand, "or maybe it connected. I don’t know.”

Jon watches him struggle to make sense of it all and doesn't interrupt. He recognizes Jaime in this moment, as he’s needed to explain his own heart to his head more than once.

“Things ended for us a long time ago, but I couldn't see it then, or I didn't want to. When I was with her, I wasn't... I could see who she was, and I told myself I could be that, too. I made that choice." Jaime drinks again and Jon sees a bitterness fill his mouth along with the ale. For a moment, Jaime looks as though he might spit it back out, but then he swallows hard and says, "It was really only my children that I loved, why I stayed even though... It was them I would do anything to protect, anything.” Jaime looks at his golden hand, sneering, and then lifts his mug with the other.

“Even push my brother out of a window,” Jon states coldly. Jaime doesn’t look up at him, or speak. He only sits in the thick weight of the words, and Jon lets him. “That’s why you agreed to Bran’s request, because you owe him a debt.” 

Jaime nods and then finally looks him in the eye. “People called me Kingslayer for years. But I knew what I was. I saved them, all of them.” He shakes his head with disgust and Jon clenches his jaw. 

“Then they called my sister-fucker,” Jaime curses, his eyes commanding Jon’s to stay in his grip. “You think it mattered? They’re sheep, all of them. What concern does a lion have for sheep?” 

Jon feels the palm of his sword hand start to prickle, but he remains as still and silent as Ghost. Then Jaime’s lips curls just the slightest bit before he stands and moves across the room, but not before seeing Jon’s hand twitch at last. When Jaime’s back is to him, Jon lets out the breath he’d been holding and knows he’s just lost some strange game without realizing he was playing. 

“The love my sister and I shared wasn’t our sin,” he tells the maester’s stacks. Then Jaime turns around again and Jon sees his face has grown somber. “In truth, it's probably the only thing that was ever good, in either of us. But in the end, it wasn’t enough." 

Jon relaxes his posture and listens as Jaime unburdens himself, all the while stunned that he's the one this man is trusting with his tale. 

“I was the lucky one, though I never knew it. There was a time I felt quite sorry for myself, in fact. Having to stand outside Robert’s door, playing my role as King’s Guard, while he fucked her, or fucked whores and kitchen maids to insult her. To insult me.” Jaime closes his eyes for a moment. 

“But she was the one who suffered. All our lives, I was favored and lauded by our father. Even deciding to give up my place as his heir never earned me anything more than the occasional lecture. But Cersei was sold, he gave her to that horrible drunk in exchange for power. She was the one who endured the king's cruelty, and our father's. They made her what she is, and I did nothing to stop it. Instead, I made her a mother. It was the one thing that ever truly made her happy, but it wasn't enough. I let my own cowardice keep me from ever being a father to them, from ever _really_ being there for any of them.”

Jon can’t help thinking of Sansa, and the understanding they’d reached that morning, if that’s what they’d done. He pictures himself standing guard, watching his children play and run around the castle while they call someone else Father. He imagines himself growing old and watching them get married, having children of their own, all of them in danger should he ever be found out. 

“You wanted to keep them safe,” Jon hears himself saying. “All of them, her too.”

Jaime sighs and moves back to the table. He keeps his gaze low, wanting to offer advice to this boy who knows nothing about the world, despite all the monsters he’s faced in the North. He wants to tell him he knows his secret, and that he can help. But he won’t betray Brienne’s confidence, not ever, so he simply speaks to his golden hand. 

“We don’t get to choose who we love. But, that doesn’t absolve me of my crime.” 

Jon’s attention is pulled back to him and Jaime lifts his eyes. Everything about him seems tired now, stripped away. His next words sound so empty, they couldn’t possibly contain anything but truth. 

“Let me go on this mission for your brother. If I somehow make it back, I’ll submit to the justice I deserve without a fight. Execution, the Wall, my other hand, whatever you want.” 

Jon finds himself at a complete loss for what to think. In truth, this whole conversation has been so far removed from any he’d ever imagined he might have with the man sitting across from him. He wishes Sansa were here. Or Bran. Even Arya, though she’d probably have murdered him already and prevented him from having to have this strangely intimate moment with Jaime fucking Lannister. 

“One war at a time, right?” Jon offers Jaime half a grin and then does his best to arrange his face in a way that will communicate his desire to change the subject. “You should come with me to speak to Bran when he arrives, see if he can tell you anything else about Daenerys and her dragons. I have a lot to ask him myself, so we might as well hear it together.” 

***

Sansa and Wynafryd reach the bottom of the Castle Stair and the cobblestone of the steps expands into the wide road leading through the city. Homes line the streets and the people go about their business, fetching water from the wells and chatting with their neighbors, as children run around in play. 

No one gives them much notice, as Lady Manderly and Lady Stark are both hooded in plain cloaks. Sansa wears her hood for protection, against drawing too much attention, as well as the steadily falling snow. The knights guarding them might be a giveaway, but she sees other knights traveling through the streets as well and hopes theirs will blend into the crowd. Wynafryd seems unconcerned though, and even offers a smile of recognition to a small group of women gathered around a wash tub. 

“The city is beautiful,” Sansa praises as she takes it all in. “My father brought Robb with him here once. He was still just a boy but he was already being groomed for rule. My father brought me a silver brooch back as a present, and Robb went on for ages about the silversmiths. Even if I knew what he was talking about, it wouldn’t have interested me more than my shiny new trinket.” Sansa’s face falls for a moment with the pain of days gone forever, but quickly fixes a smile of courtesy back again. “Still, he seemed quite impressed with the craftsmen.” 

“Ah, yes.” Wynafryd gestures to a nearby shop with a wrought iron sign hanging above the door. In the center of the twisted bars sits a shining and ornately detailed silver cask. “Would you like to take a look for yourself?”

Sansa follows her eagerly and when they enter the silversmith’s workshop, her eyes widen with awe. A large stove sits in the center of the room, arched with smooth brick so pristinely stacked that even it exudes an air of fine luxury. It was nothing like the armory at Winterfell.

Metal workers busy themselves with their craft and Sansa watches them with intrigue, letting herself imagine Robb standing in the same space, with the same wonder. The walls are lined with shining silver wares organized by type. Dishes, trinkets, décor and weapons of all shapes and sizes hold Sansa’s lingering gaze for a spell before she realizes her mouth is hanging open. 

A gray-haired man sits at a table polishing a variety of items spread out neatly before him and Sansa sees him smile kindly at Wynafryd with recognition. They approach and Wynafryd introduces him as the shop owner. Young, strong men work the precious material behind him, a task he no longer has the strength to take on. But Sansa sees the etching tools sat next to him, the stained tips of the old man’s curled fingers, and she knows his artistry presides over every object here.

They chat with him for a while, as well as with a few patrons who visit while they are there, and Sansa begins to relax her defenses more and more as she sees the love the people have for their lady. Everyone knows each other, and though they always address Wynafryd with respect, there is also a familiarity that tells Sansa she spends a great deal of time among her subjects. She is one of them, as much as she is their liege. Then, as they bid the silversmith farewell, a parting gift of faith is offered to her as he straightens his worn back, looks into Sansa's eyes, and recites, "The North remembers." 

The day stretches into the early evening, and Sansa is truly enjoying her time with Wynafryd. They carry on a detailed discussion about the organization of the food stores and by the end of it both women find themselves quite impressed with the project they’ve designed, and impressed with each other as well. They discuss other ideas about supporting the war efforts from beyond the battlefield, as well as recovery efforts for after the fighting is done. 

Wynafryd shows Sansa the tall statues of the Seven at the Sept of the Snows, and before they know it, the conversation moves beyond practical matters and becomes more personal. She tells her this is where her uncle's bones were buried after the Red Wedding and Sansa reveals the depths of her regret that the bones of her mother and brother were never put to rest. Wynafryd consoles her by confessing, "The gods can't help them now. It's up to us."

Sansa recognizes how much she has in common with Wynafryd, and pretends for a moment that they are old friends out for an evening on the town. The fantasy is bittersweet, a glimpse at the life she pictured for herself as a girl, visiting with other ladies of great houses while the high lords make decisions, and a reminder that she’d abandoned that picture long ago. She’s never even had any true friends, not since she left her childhood home. For so long, the only people around her were either there because they had to be or they were trying to sink their teeth into her. Usually the latter. Having family again is wonderful, but Sansa finds herself wondering what it would be like to have a friend. A peer who could understand her, someone with whom she could share secrets and advice and even gossip.

The strong aromas of the fish market surround them as they enter into Fishfoot Yard, a bustling square near harbor. They sit near the enormous fountain at the center of the marketplace, and Sansa smiles as she examines the merman statue rising out from the center of it. Wynafryd is tells her the tale of a time when she and Wylla had fought in front of Old Fishfoot as children, the row ending with them pulling each other by the hair until they both fell in.

As her laughter quiets, the intoxication of her friendship fantasy leads Sansa to lower her inhibitions, perhaps too much. “Why haven’t you married?” she asks casually, before realizing she might have overstepped. “If you don’t mind me asking,” she adds quickly.

Wynafryd smiles at her blushing companion and says, “I was betrothed, until quite recently actually.”

“Oh, I see,” Sansa replies simply. She is convinced now that she ought not to pry further, but she doesn’t have to.

“I was never going to go through with it anyway,” she continues with a slight smirk. “The arrangement was just another one of my grandfather’s ploys to convince the Boltons and the Crown that we were falling in line. But, alas, my poor intended met a tragic early death.”

Wynafryd notices Sansa's curious, yet not at all disapproving look. 

“I didn’t kill him,” she clarifies with a small laugh. “He was a Frey, poisoned at that feast with the rest of them. Thank the gods.”

Sansa laughs now, too. But then the light air of their evening is suddenly cut through as they see a member of the household guard rushing toward them.

“My lady,” he gasps as he reaches them. They stand up in unison and Sansa feels her stomach lurch with a familiar panic that never strays far. “It’s Lady Wylla, she…” 

He pauses for a moment and glances as Sansa, who turns to her companion. Wynafryd has a calm, but annoyed expression on her face that gives Sansa the impression this exchange is not unexpected. “Go on,” she nods, permitting the guard to speak freely in front Lady Stark.

“She left the castle, already quite…”

“Drunk?”

“Yes, my lady. The guards followed her but she slipped out of their sights.” He looks as exasperated and he does apologetic. “Forgive me, my lady. I thought you should know right away, but I assure you we’ll find her.”

“You don’t have to,” Wynafryd tells him. “And there’s nothing to forgive. I apologize for my sister’s crude behavior. Please tell the guards to abandon the search and return to the castle. I will deal with Lady Wylla.”

The man nods and makes his way back the way he came. Then Wynafryd turns to Sansa with a playful smirk and asks, “Are you hungry? I know where to get the best fried cod in the city, come on.” 

She takes Sansa by the arm and glances at her guards, but only one follows them as Wynafryd starts to lead her toward a darkened alleyway at the far end of the square. 

“But what about your sister?” Sansa asks with genuine concern. “Shouldn't we look for her?”

“No, I know where she is, and that’s where we’re going. I expect we’ll have some time to wait, though. So, we might as well eat.” 

“Wait?” Sansa is confused, but Wynafryd just chuckles slightly as they pass under the archway leading into the alley.

There is a seedy feel to the dark passage leading to what she assumes is a tavern, and her gaze lingers for a moment on a toothless man selling something steaming out of the back of his carriage. The pungent smell of seafood fills her nose and she realizes just how hungry she actually is. As they approach a wooden door, Sansa can hear people talking and laughing from inside. The guard takes his post beside the entrance and it becomes clear he won’t be escorting them in.

Sansa again lets herself be delighted by their adventure, enjoying the freedom of knowing they will be without a chaperone for a dinner. She smiles a little at the impropriety of it all, feeling quite a rebellious, but as they enter the establishment the shock of what she sees reminds her that she is no woman of the world. 

It isn’t a tavern, it’s a _brothel_. The eating tables are mostly all occupied with men, sailors and merchants, several of whom have a woman sat upon their laps, breasts out for their amusement. The sounds coming from behind the closed doors lining the room are beyond lewd as well. Sansa doesn’t know where to look, knowing her face must match the crimson drapes adorning the walls. 

She takes her seat at the empty corner table Wynafryd leads them to, and allows herself a few more curious glances around the room. A raspy laugh draws her attention to a whore with straight black hair slinking down her bare back. She is sat across the lap of a man who is slurring so incoherently that Sansa finds it hard to believe his joke was as hilarious as the woman’s response would suggest. She throws her head back in another roar and Sansa sees that her beautiful face is somewhat lined, and the heavy lids of her eyes crease deeply as her smile meets them in genuine mirth. 

“Your sister is _here_?” Sansa asks quietly as she brings her stunned expression back to her companion. 

Wynafryd nods indifferently. “She used to do this all the time,” she explains. “I managed to convince her to put an end to it once we were occupied by the Boltons. She can be impossible, but even Wylla understood the dangers they posed. Now that they’re gone, I suppose she was eager to get back to it.”

 _Get back to what, exactly?_ Sansa wants to ask, but before she can a woman with round hips and silver wisps in her hair approaches them with a kind smile.

“Lady Wynafryd,” the wench greets happily. “So, nice to see you again.”

To Sansa's continued surprise, the woman throws her arms around Wynafryd and then sits down beside her without hesitation. 

“Madam Sybil,” Wynafryd addresses her with a smile before turning to Sansa. “This is Lady Stark. She’s a guest of mine for a few days so I offered to show her around White Harbor’s finest establishments.”

Sybil smirks at her before winking kindly at Sansa. “Welcome to the Lazy Eel, m'lady. Famed for having the foulest food and oldest whores in the city.” 

Sansa giggles, fully amused, and replies "It's lovely to meet you." Then, with feigned disappointment she adds, “But I was promised the best fried cod in the city.” She glances back at Wynafryd and adds, “Though I suppose having the oldest whores more than makes up for it, in my experience.” 

She feels a great sense of pride when the wench laughs at her joke, and Sansa hopes she is impressing her friend. 

“The cod comes from the street peddlers outside,” Sybil explains, still chuckling. “You think I’d let the lady of our fine city eat the swill my sorry sod of a husband makes back there?” She gestures with a flick of her head toward the kitchens behind her.

As Sansa’s glance follows, two familiar faces catch her eye and she gasps, turning back toward the corner so that her hood obscures her face. 

“I’ll grab you a couple of plates,” Sybil announces as she stands and pours them both ale. 

Sansa looks back at Wynafryd, embarrassed by her reaction, but she pays her no mind as she sees Sybil answer Wynafryd’s unspoken question with a pointed glance toward one of the nearby chamber doors. Sansa risks another glimpse around, but the only thing she sees is the back of Podrick and Bronn as they disappear out into the night. Her mind races for a moment with worry, but she’s almost certain they didn’t see her. 

Before she can think on it too much, the screeching wail of a woman erupts from behind the door Sybil had indicated. Sansa’s eyes widen but Wynafryd just sighs, taking a drink. 

“What was that?” Sansa asks, just as another animalistic howl emerges from the room. She can’t tell if the woman is moaning in ecstasy or dying in agonizing pain.

“That was Dara,” she replies, clarifying nothing. Wynafryd rubs her forehead in cringing frustration, but when she finally opens her mouth to elaborate, she is interrupted when the chamber door flies open. 

A woman with freckled apple cheeks, currently flushed and sweating, tumbles out of the room with her tits still bouncing free. She finishes adjusting her skirts before finally lifting her heavy bosom back into the bodice of her dress. Then she turns back toward the lover she's just escaped.

“I told you,” she giggles, thrusting her hand against the person still just inside the doorway, “I have to go home.” 

Sansa’s mouth drops open again as she sees Wylla stumble from the room, wrapping her arms around the whore’s waist from behind and drawing her back against her. 

“No, you don’t,” the lady whines into the crook of her lover’s neck. “Dara, Dara,” she sings to her. “Don’t go my darling Dara. Don’t leave me alone.” 

Her green hair is spilling wildly from its braid and her lips are swollen, stained red from wine and painted woman. When the whore wrenches herself free Sansa sees that Wylla is no longer wearing the dress she’d worn during the council, but is instead dressed in a tunic and breeches. Almost dressed, anyway. 

“You’re drunk,” the whore soothes as she presses one last kiss to Lady Wylla’s seeking mouth. Sansa inhales at the sight of the two women coming together with such lust, feeling herself warm suddenly at her core. She’s never seen women touch that way before. Wylla moves her mouth to her lover's neck, sucking desperately as her hands kneed against the woman's rear. Sansa watches the whore's response as her eyes roll back in what seems like genuine pleasure. But then those eyes come forward again and land directly on her. Sansa gasps quietly but the woman frees herself again saying, “And your sister’s here, which means it's time for you to go home, too.” 

Wylla turns toward them and Sansa suddenly feels mortified to be intruding on this entire situation. A gruesome scowl spreads across Wylla’s face before she turns back to see her lover escaping through the kitchens. She stands there swaying for a moment, her eyes nearly shut, before finally stumbling her way over to the table. 

Wynafryd slides over, allowing Wylla to fall onto the bench beside her, sprawling out to the side with her head slumped against her sister's shoulder. Sansa sees her tut disapproval down at the drunken woman, but then she starts to smooth her green hair away from her face with a gentle hand. 

“She left me,” Wylla mumbles in complaint, rolling onto her back and laying her head in her sister’s comforting lap. 

“You’ll see her again soon, I’m sure.” Wynafryd starts tying together the front of Wylla’s tunic, but stops when her sister grabs her hands, releasing a hitched sob. 

“No, Wyn. I’ll never see her again. Never, never…” 

Sansa sees tears roll down the side of Wylla’s face, disappearing into the green brush that pillows beneath her head. Wynafryd rubs her arms and shushes her softly until the repeated lament of _nevers_ quiets into a drunken slumber. 

“Dara reminds her of someone she loved, that’s why she comes here. In fact, Dara isn’t even her name, it’s just what Wylla insists on calling her.” 

Sansa looks back down at the woman with clarity at last. The pain is still hardened on her face, even in sleep, and Sansa feels her heart break for her.

 

***

“He was quite impressive in battle. We were grossly outnumbered thanks to his clever plan, but that wasn’t the impressive part.” Despite himself, Jon is hanging on every word the man tells him about his brother. “I saw him fighting, and he was good. Really good. Just like your father.”

Jon’s face falls with the reminder of his father. He’s aware of how Jaime Lannister knows what a good fighter he was. Suddenly, his interest in the man’s praise of his family wanes.

“He would have made a good king,” Jaime continues. “I was his prisoner when they named him King in the North. They shouted it for ages, quite annoying really. But the people loved him.”

“Being skilled in battle doesn’t make you a good king,” Jon sneers, “not for long anyway.” This catches Jaime’s attention. “My father taught us to fight with honor. But honor blinds you, it leaves you open to scheming cowards, like your father.”

Jaime watches the cold face of Jon carefully, expecting him to rage in defiance the way Starks are prone to do. His eyes don’t seem vengeful, though, just filled with regret. 

“In your travels from the Vale, did Lady Brienne ever tell you that I died?” 

Jon looks him in the eye, his face like stone, and Jaime’s glaring shock answers the question. 

“After the massacre at Hardhome, I brought back the few Wildlings that had survived and let them south of the Wall, for their survival, because it was the right thing to do.” Jon takes another drink before he continues. “And then my own brothers murdered me. They pushed their knives in me, one after the other, until my heart stopped and I was gone.” 

Jaime can’t believe what he is hearing, and yet he knows it must be true. It’s too ridiculous a story for someone like Jon Snow to make up. “How…” is all he can manage to respond.

“The Red Woman.”

“The witch who killed Renly?” Jon nods. “Does Brienne know that?” He nods again, then sighs.

Jaime contemplates it all for a moment, and then looks at Jon again as though he’s come to some kind of conclusion. “You aren’t your father, you know? Or your brother. You’ve had a chance to learn the lesson they never did.”

Jon scoffs at the man’s presumption that he knows anything about the lessons he’s learned. “And what is that?”

“That a king can’t lead all on his own. You don’t have to-”

“I’m not a king,” Jon interjects. His tone is clear, this won’t be a discussion. 

Just as Jaime decides to change the topic back to some less tormenting, like White Walkers, Bronn bursts into the maester’s solar, already singing his endorsement of the establishment from which he came. He spots Jon, and the words “tongue so far up my,” are swallowed into his suddenly bone-dry throat. 

Jon stands without much acknowledgement of Bronn and mutters, “I’ll find the maester later. I need to go talk to Sansa.” 

He makes his way toward the door and barely registers Bronn clearing his throat until he says, “she’s not here,” and then the man has his full attention. 

Jon stalks closer, eyes focused and sharp. He doesn’t say a word or pose a question, because he doesn’t need to. Bronn doesn’t hesitate to elaborate, informing Jon that he’d seen Sansa enter the Lazy Eel as he made he way out. 

Without another breath, Jon is gone. Bronn looks to Jaime for support, but gets none, as he is almost in tears with his failing attempt to not laugh.

***

When Madam Sybil brings their food, she sits and eats with them as well. She fusses over Wylla, and speaks like a concerned mother with Wynafryd about how much more she drinks these days. Sansa is enjoying this woman very much, and the cod is incredible. The ale, on the other hand remains mostly untouched. Sansa never really liked ale anyway, but this one must be worse than the stuff she tried at the Wall. 

She finds herself thinking about him as Sybil gossips about Wylla’s broken heart. She knows now that she can’t possibly suggest a marriage between this woman and Jon. Whatever her position in the world has already cost her, she deserves to choose her own path now. Wynafryd, on the other hand, perhaps she would be interested. She seems as though she understands the value of a marriage alliance, and Jon is a good man. If she’s interested in men, that is. 

“Her little girlfriend,” Sybil smirks with a gesture toward the room where Wylla bedded Dara, “she was ‘sposed to go home a couple hours ago. Pulled a double as it is.” 

“I’ll speak to her,” Wynafryd sighs with her hand coming to rest on Wylla’s back. 

“Not that we don’t appreciate the business, mind you,” she winks at Sansa. “Your sister is a far better customer than any of these filthy seadogs.” Sybil raises her voice and points her ale accusingly at the sailors scattered about the room. They all jeer affectionately back at her and she smacks a kiss over to them. 

“I just worry about her is all. Both of you.” Sybil starts to tear up and reaches for Wynafryd’s hand. This surprises Sansa somewhat, then Sybil turns to her and looks as though she might hold her hand as well. “When the Boltons were here, m’lady, well, I don’t have to tell you about them.”

Sansa lowers her gaze for a moment as a wave of something heavy floats through her. “No, you don’t,” she whispers. 

“When we heard they had you, what they were-”

“Sybil,” Wynafryd halts her with a small shake of her head. 

Sansa sees them both watching her for a response, but they are warm and it comforts her. 

“It’s alright,” she assures them. “The Boltons have taken from all of us.”

“When you escaped,” Sybil continues quietly. She is speaking to Sansa, but she looks back at the sleeping beauty again and says, “we were all worried that he would take one of them in your place.” 

Sansa cringes at the idea. An anger builds in her again, not just for Ramsay. Her rage isn’t just reserved for the man who’s spread terror across her lands. It is for the power held by men like Littlefinger, and Tywin Lannister, and any father with a highborn daughter to trade, even her own. 

“Lady Wynafryd,” she blurts out with a sudden air of authority. Her anger that filled her body transforms into an idea so quickly she feels as though they were transported back to the war council meeting. 

“Please, call me Wyn.”

Sansa sighs, relaxing her posture again and then smiles softly. “Wyn, Sybil, I’d like to propose another meeting while I’m here as your guest. A women’s court.”

Sybil looks to her lady with confusion, as she likely hasn’t heard of Good Queen Alysanne’s legendary visit to White Harbor. She isn’t from here, having sailed into the harbor with a captain who’d decided not to take her back with him when he sailed home. She also doesn’t have the luxury of a formal education. So when she sees Wynafryd light up at the idea, she can only assume this is something good. 

“I’ll arrange it with my sister in the morning,” Wyn confirms. “But I think it’s time we were getting her home.” 

Sybil helps her lift the stirring Wylla to her feet, and then Sansa steps beneath one of her arms as Wynafryd takes the other. They say farewell to Sybil and step out of the brothel into the cold air of the night. 

The door hasn’t quite closed behind them when Sansa sees something rushing toward her through the shadows. The Manderly guard steps out in front of them as a barrier, but as the man continues to approach, she recognizes his brutish silhouette. 

“Jon,” she calls out. “What are you doing here?” 

The guard allows for them to approach the angry man, but only after glancing at Wynafryd for reassurance. 

“What am I- Sansa?” Jon shakes his head, and holds out his hands to the display in front of him, two ladies of great houses exiting a brothel with another barely held up between them. “What happened to her?”

“She’s drunk,” Wynafryd clarifies. “And heavy.” 

Jon looks at the guard who is positioning himself to lead them safely out of the alleyway but otherwise doesn't acknowledge the scene. He sighs and turns back to Sansa, who only stares at him defiantly. Then he practically shoves her aside as he snakes his arm between Sansa and Wylla’s waists, pulling the collapsing girl into his arms so that they can return to the castle more quickly. 

He stays a few paces ahead of them as they cross the square, leaving Sansa to feel like a child being marched off to her septa for discipline. Wynafryd shoots her a smirk and Sansa finds herself wanting to laugh. Instead though, she stops in her tracks and then turns back, running the few paces toward the fountain they had just passed. 

“Lady Sansa!” Wynafryd shouts.

Jon whips around to see her leaning over the fountain, heaving into it with her hair held behind her by Lady Manderly. He looks up into the sky and then back at the limp woman he’s holding, the stench of her evening wafting against him. He’s trying to figure out if he’s dreaming all of this, then sees Wynafryd and Sansa approaching again. He turns back toward his destination, practically sprinting in his stride towards the castle, with Lady Wylla fully snoring now in his arms. 

When he’s deposited her safely in her chamber, he leaves Sansa and her sister to tend to her properly. Just as he is about to step out of the door, gruffly as he can just to make another unspoken point, he glances back at the women. They are smiling, laughing a little. Even Wylla, who can barely speak, is responding to their teases of her with a giggle. 

A memory comes to him of the night he and Robb had to carry Theon home, drunk and singing loudly about his love for Ros. He’d had to hold his hand over Theon's mouth so as to not wake up Lord Stark, or worse, Lady Catelyn. He feared for his own skin in that moment, more than Theon’s. He knew Catelyn thought of him as having a bastard’s nature, and he never wanted to give her any proof. 

_What would she think of me now,_ he wonders. _Bringing Sansa home from a brothel, drunk no less._ He almost laughs at the thought, but then Sansa meets his gaze and he realizes he’s been staring at her from the doorway. He is reminded that this night would be the least of his worries, should he ever have to confront Catelyn Stark’s ghost. 

He’d been avoiding eye contact with her since leaving the alley, so he only just now sees it. There is something wrong, something she's hiding from the women she laughs with. He shifts his brow as if to ask, but then she jerks her glance away. She’s hiding it from him, too.

Jon leaves then, part of him hoping she will come to him when she is finished getting Lady Wylla into bed, the other part hoping she will just go to her chamber and sleep it off instead.

When she doesn’t come, and sleep doesn't either, Jon decides to go for a walk down by the harbor. He sits against a stone wall near the shore, listening to the waves, trying to let the sound drown out the bedlam in his mind. He can’t think about it anymore, any of it. The future will always be a mess, no matter what he does, and all that matters now is making sure they even have one. 

He closes his eyes, letting the crashing lullaby wash away all of the images in his mind, all of the words in his ears, everything that is behind him or ahead, until all he can feel is his blood pumping through his veins. All he can hear is his heart beating in a rhythm of the sea. Snowflakes fall, kissing the burning skin of his hands, and he lifts his face to let them touch his lips. The sensation overwhelms him, and his body fills with a longing that cracks open from his core. It spills out beyond him, across the city and up the Castle Stair. It is like an invisible rod of lightening spearing him through his heart, and she holds the other end. 

A horn bellows through the port, pulling Jon to full alertness again, and he looks out across the water. Against the backdrop of a rising pink sky, Jon sees a ship is pulling into dock with an excited, flailing boy standing at its helm.


	48. Promised

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa receive counsel that shifts their ideas about the future.

Sansa walks down the guest corridor in a trance, repeating a mantra to herself about bad fish, while simply refusing to let her mind slip into calculations. Not until she is safely alone in her room. As she reaches her door, she glances across to Jon’s for a moment, then she takes a deep breath and enters her own chamber. 

That breath chokes back out of her throat as she sees Lady Brienne waiting for her inside. Assuming Podrick has informed the knight of her whereabouts this evening, Sansa braces herself for another scolding. It is only when Brienne begins, that she remembers why she is truly in trouble. 

“My lady, I think we should speak about Jon. About you and Jon.” 

Sansa doesn’t look surprised, or defensive. She simply stands there and faces Brienne’s charge, waiting for her to go on. 

“I know that your relationship is… complicated. But I feel it is my responsibility to warn you-”

“It doesn’t matter,” she interrupts. Sansa moves to her dressing table and removes her gloves. “I’m ending it, _we’re_ ending it.”

Brienne gathers herself for a moment and then moves to where Sansa is now hanging up her cloak. “What are you talking about?”

“I’m perfectly aware of how _complicated_ our being together is, and so I don’t need your warnings, or looks of disapproval. It’s over.” Sansa sits at her vanity and begins fighting with the laces on her boot. 

Brienne watches her in disbelief, then kneels to help her with her shoes. “That wasn’t what I was going to say,” she clarifies awkwardly. “I was only going to tell you to be more discrete. You two are terrible at hiding it.”

Sansa looks at Brienne as she tugs her boot away, freeing her aching foot and starting on the next. Then a queer laugh bursts from her belly, drawing Brienne’s attention back to her face. The knight studies her carefully as the madness of Sansa’s laughter morphs into anguished sobs, and Brienne pulls her into an embrace. 

“I love him,” Sansa cries quietly against her shoulder. The woman’s arms feel so warm and protective around her, almost like her mother’s. 

“I know,” she soothes. Brienne holds her a while longer, wanting to bear as much of the weight this girl carries as she can. But there isn’t much her sword can do to defend against this. “He’s a good man, and he loves you, too. I can see that, anyone can.”

Sansa pulls herself up at last, wiping the last of her tears from her face. The evening had proven too much and her armor is failing her, but she’ll only allow it for a moment. Only with Brienne.

“Did something happen?” Brienne asks, taking a seat now across from her. Sansa looks confused so she clarifies, “With Jon. You said it’s over?”

“No,” she sighs. “It’s not like that. I just can’t… do this to him. He deserves so much more.” 

Sansa opens up to Brienne, unburdening herself of all of it. She talks about how she feels, how they both feel, and she tells her about the agreement they’d made that morning. Brienne can see the pain in Sansa as she describes it, and understands her decision to not go through with it. Then Sansa pulls herself into a stillness that could rival the statues of the Seven as she recites their futures. Jon will be king and marry a queen who can give him heirs. Sansa will marry Robin and remain childless. 

“I’ll find my joy caring for the children this war leaves orphaned,” she asserts with a proud defiance. Brienne can see she's trying to make herself believe it. “And I’ll have nieces and nephews to love. It will still be a better life than being someone’s prisoner. I’m luckier than most.” 

Brienne feels both fiercely proud of Sansa’s strength and incredibly sad for her, too. Nobody deserve happiness more than this woman, in her opinion. She’s got so much in her that she doesn’t recognize, so much of her mother and father both, but also a brilliance all her own. Sansa is the queen people will need if they make it through the Long Night, nothing has ever been more clear to her.

“Sansa, marriage is a matter for after we take back Winterfell,” she tells her lady sternly. Sansa looks at her and Brienne holds her attention with the authority of her words. “None of us are promised a victory in war, so there is no use planning some noble sacrifice when you might not even be around for it to matter." 

She almost looks insulted, but then Brienne softens and adds, "Hold on to what you have for now, while you still have it.” 

Sansa smiles a little. She realizes then that she was wrong before. She does have a true friend. Then she sighs and admits, “I don’t know what I should do.”

“Well for one thing, you should start being honest with me. I will defend you always, in victory or defeat. But I can’t do that if you hide things from me.” Brienne smiles warmly at her and Sansa nods, but then her face falls again as she pulls her bottom lip between her teeth. “Sansa? What is it?”

***

Jon embraces his brother and smiles when he sees Meera standing beside him. “You came,” he observes happily. 

She nods, returning his smile and Jon sees that she is remarkably different from when he’d seen her at Greywater Watch. There is a lightness in her that wasn’t there before. She seems almost more alive. He turns back to his brother and thinks he notices a similar vibrancy in him. Then Robin Arryn approaches him, enthusiastically asking after Sansa. 

“She’s sleeping still,” he answers, disappointing the boy hopelessly.

Jon finds himself considering the young lord in a way he never has before. In all of his misery throughout the day and night, picturing the future they'd agreed to, he'd never let himself acknowledge the other person who would be part of it, standing next to Sansa, fathering his children. It is only for a moment, but before he begins leading the arrivals toward the castle, Jon briefly feels his stomach clench with rage. 

“We should go through the Wolf’s Den,” Bran tells Jon as they make their way through the port. “It has tunnels underground that will lead us up to the castle.”

Manderly guards stationed at the gates grant them passage, and one leads them through the ancient structure toward the tunnel. Currently used as a prison, the black stone castle was once the seat of White Harbor, built by King Jon Stark. This piece of history echoes loudly in his mind while Jon examines the walls, cells, and corridors as they pass. When they come upon a particularly crumbled hallway, Jon looks to the far end of it and thinks he sees something odd. A white snake perhaps, slithering up the wall.

“Stop,” Bran says suddenly, and Jon halts his push of the wheelchair. He looks at his brother for further instruction, but Bran just stares for a moment in the same direction Jon had been looking. 

He moves a little further down the corridor and Jon sees that what he saw was not a snake, but a branch. It is a weirwood tree coming through the wall, the branch having pushed through the stone from the other side and then back out, like an arm wrapped around an enemy's throat. 

“There’s a godswood through there,” Bran explains. 

“Would you like to visit it?” Jon asks quietly.

“Yes, but not now. We should continue to the castle. Lord Arryn needs to settle in.” 

Jon watches his brother, and when Bran looks at him again it seems as if he is trying to tell him something. They nod subtly to each other and then rejoin the rest of the group. Meera, Bran, Robin, and Jon follow their guide up the long path that runs beneath the Castle Stair. It slopes more and more until they finally reach a door that leads them into the castle. 

Household servants commence with the prepared accommodations for the new visitors. Bran has a chamber on the main floor, making his mobility easier, and Robin is given the suite reserved for royal guests. It is practically a wing unto itself, with a private kitchen and dining room, servant’s quarters, and even a courtyard that is secluded from the rest of the grounds. 

Podrick is the first of Jon’s men to be notified of their arrival and he meets them as they finish getting Lord Arryn settled in. Robin insists on seeing Sansa right away, despite Podrick’s reiteration that she is still sleeping.

“I’ll go fetch her,” Jon tells him at last. He has no intention of prioritizing the reunion between the promised parties, and feels slightly guilty for that when Pod offers to keep the boy company while they wait.

Bran informs the servant leading them to his room that Meera will not be needing her own chamber, as she will stay with him. Jon forces himself to not give a sideways glance to his brother, so as to not make Meera uncomfortable, but he does intend to bring it up once they’re alone.

“We’ll have breakfast brought to both of you shortly,” the maid nods kindly. “Will there be anything else, my lord? My lady?”

Meera answers her when Bran does not. “No, thank you.” 

The woman leaves and Jon sits with Bran as he settles himself by the fire. Meera begins to unpack their trunks quietly and Jon thinks he should offer to do something. But then Bran turns to him, as though he wants to say something again, only he doesn’t.

“How was the journey?” Jon asks him unimportantly.

“Quicker than expected,” Bran replies. He continues to stare at Jon and it starts to feel unsettling. Suddenly, Jon gets the impression that Bran is angry with him. He is about to ask when Meera tells them that she intends to go find Lady Manderly and introduce herself.

“She might be sleeping, too,” Jon offers. There is no need to clarify which Manderly sister he means, as they’d all had a late evening. 

“She isn’t,” Bran corrects. “You will find her in the Merman’s Court with her sister. The guard will take you.”

Meera nods plainly, smiling at Bran as though she wants to give him a parting kiss, but then she simply leaves. Jon waits for the door to close behind her before turning to ask his brother for more details, but is halted when the Raven begins his admonition.

“You said you would trust me, Jon.” 

There is no question of it now, Bran is angry. 

“What are you-”

“Sansa. I told you that it was destined. I told you that you would understand soon. I told you not to abandon-”

“I _haven’t_ ,” he insists defensively. 

Bran continues to stare at him for another excruciatingly long moment. Then he turns his face casually toward the window as if to mark the end of his rebuke, though Jon is only left more confused.

“Meet me in the godswood after breakfast. Bring Sansa but nobody else. Not even the guards.” 

Jon waits for a look from his brother, a word, even a dismissal, but gets nothing. With the lingering feeling of having failed him somehow, he leaves and makes his way toward Sansa’s room. 

Still in a haze of uncertainty, he enters without knocking, not noticing the lack of guard posted outside her door until he sees Brienne sleeping in a chair. 

“Is everything alright?” he asks instinctively as both women begin to rouse from their sleep.

“Jon?” Sansa rubs her eyes as she sits up, and then she sees Brienne stand from her place beside the bed. “What is it, what’s happened?” 

Jon looks at Brienne, still expecting an answer to his own question, but she only gives him a small nod and returns to her post outside the door. 

“Bran’s here,” he tells her uncheerfully. “They just arrived.”

Sansa throws back the furs from her linen-draped body and Jon finds himself breathless for a moment as the image of her taking off that same shift floods his mind. She moves to her wardrobe and begins dressing in a hurry, and Jon sits at her table to watch.

“I’ve settled him and Robin into their rooms. He wants us to meet him in the godswood after breakfast. And Lord Arryn would like to see you right away.” Jon feels a slight lift in his chest when Sansa rolls her eyes dismissively at the last part. 

“There’s a godswood here?” she asks as she struggles with the laces now at her back. 

“Inside the Wolf’s Den.”

Completely forgetting to be frustrated with her about the brothel, Jon moves to her and begins helping with the ties on her dress. She stands noticeably still as he works and when he’s finished he places a gentle handle on her shoulder. She moves away though, crossing the room with a coolness that leaves Jon unsure whether she is simply rushing to get ready or avoiding his touch.

Sitting at her vanity, Sansa begins to braid her hair with quick fingers that twist down across one shoulder. “Did he say anything else?” she asks over her shoulder as she pulls on her stockings. She isn’t facing him. _Perhaps to dress with some privacy_ , it occurs to him. Jon turns to sit at the table again, but he catches a glimpse of her eyes through the looking glass beside her and it stops him.

“What’s wrong?” he asks sharply. Sansa’s body stiffens for a moment, but then she continues to bend forward, pulling on her boots.

“Nothing," she answers quickly. Her voice is light, and too casual. She turns to look at him now, but the terror he’d seen through the mirror is masked from her eyes. “Jon,” she continues more urgently, “did Bran say anything else?”

“No,” he answers coarsely. His face hardens but she won't have noticed as she's already looked away again. “Just that we should come alone.”

Sansa pulls on her cloak and smiles courteously as he opens the door for her and he follows her out of the room. They walk quietly beside each other through the castle and she goes to Robin's room first. He's eating and his soiled mouth spits her name in glee as he runs into her embrace. Jon watches from a silent corner until Sansa has expertly quelled the child's need for her. She soothes his defiance as they leave, vaguely promising she will be back once she's finished taking care of her more boring responsibilities. 

Then they head for the passage to the underground tunnel, neither of them saying a word. Brienne follows at a close distance behind them, just as silent. 

When Jon leads them to the corridor he’d seen earlier, he turns to Brienne and says, “I'm sorry my lady, but Bran insisted we come alone. He was actually quite specific about that meaning no guards.”

Brienne looks suspiciously at Sansa, but her lady nods and she steps back to take her post at the archway. Jon and Sansa continue on, still without speaking, only now it feels like a sacred silence as the corridor rounds, opening into the courtyard of the godswood. The tree whose branch protruded through the stone wall sits rooted in the center of the yard. Twisting and contorting in its confinement, the tree reaches for its freedom, branches breaking through the windows and walls of its prison. 

Bran sits before the ancient oak, pressing his hand to the bleeding face carved into white bark. Jon and Sansa move to either side of him and watch as the brown of his eyes returns to the pale slats that were there before. He turns then, facing away from the tree, and they sit beside him on clenched roots emerging from the ground. 

“Where’s Arya,” Sansa asks immediately. Her voice rings through the silence like a bell chiming the end of a prayer.

“Torrhen’s Square,” Bran replies, “with Theon.” 

“Theon?” Jon almost shouts. “What's he doing with her?”

“He’s helping her. Him and his sister, Yara. They're bringing the Ironborn to Winterfell, to fight with us.” 

Jon turns to Sansa with concern, but she is still focused on Bran. The news of Theon joining them is not a surprise to her, and he wonders if she’d seen it before. As Sansa watches Bran, and Jon watches them both, he finds himself studying the two Starks in a new way. _What do they see?_

“Did she find her friend?” Jon wonders aloud. 

Bran and Sansa keep their mysterious gaze on each other locked for a little longer before he looks back to Jon with an answer. “He’s with her, too. They are all safe. Rickon is safe as well.”

Jon breathes a sigh of relief, fully grateful to have the gift of his brother in this moment. He can see them, keep an eye on them, and it lets Jon feel less afraid. Then he thinks about what that must be like for Bran, what he’s seen them all go through. The thought sends a chill through him. He can’t imagine watching them all from a distance, powerless to help and hoping they will survive. Seeing their faces when they don’t. Hearing them scream. He thinks of Father, and Robb, Catelyn... His heart breaks as he realizes Bran has seen his own mother die. 

_Everything that’s ever happened, to everyone._

They all sit quietly for a moment and there is snow falling around them in the small courtyard. Jon can’t bring himself to probe his little brother on White Walkers and Dragon Queens just now. He wants to hold him, and tell him he’s sorry that so much has been laid upon him. That he is the bravest of all of them. 

“Bran,” he whispers, pulling both their attention to him now. He smirks a little and leans closers to his brother, asking, “What’s going on between you and Meera?” 

Sansa’s eyes lift in surprise, but then Jon’s smile widens and she turns curiously back to her little brother. “Is she here?”

He nods, the corner of his mouth twitching up, and then he states plainly, “I love her.”

Sansa and Jon both let their mouths fall open slightly. Then Jon looks at her and sees she is smiling, tears starting to glisten in her beautiful eyes. It makes him warm so much that the cloak he wears starts to feel unneeded. 

“I’m happy for you,” Jon offers quietly. He just wants them all to be children again, playing and laughing. He wants to go home. 

Sansa wipes a silly tear away, laughing at herself, and then she reaches for Bran’s hand without thinking. Immediately, she rips herself back, pulling away from him and the peaceful moment, suddenly terrified. 

They both look at her with concern, Jon’s much more visible on his face. “Sansa, what is it?” he asks carefully.

“Nothing, I… I’m sorry, I don’t feel well. I need to go back.” 

She’s already on her feet and Jon calls her name, but then she’s gone. He considers going after her but then looks back to his brother for guidance and sees his anger has returned. 

“What’s going on?” he demands of Bran.

“I told you,” he replies flatly.

“Told me what? Not to abandon her? She’s right here! I’ve kept her with me, she’s safe and we're together.” Jon is practically yelling at him now. 

He’s tired of the cryptic half-messages, from Bran, from Melisandre, even Sansa telling him she’s going to die. But how? When? Where? All of these visions only make him more lost. He just wants somebody to tell him something useful, something true. 

“Then why is she trying to arrange a marriage between you and Lady Manderly?”

“She- wait, what?” 

His brother doesn’t answer this either and it is starting to infuriate him. 

Bran insists unhelpfully, “You have to go to Winterfell." 

“Yes, I know that,” Jon grits.

“Both of you, together. You have to win it back, it is _all_ that matters now. It has to be you.” Bran is starting to sound panicked and Jon looks at him again, seeing his eyes more strained than they’ve ever been. His breathing is heavy, too. “The Long Night is coming. We have to be ready. We have to be in Winterfell.”

Jon moves closer to him, placing a hand on his shoulder to soothe him. “Okay, Bran. It’s okay. We will be, I promise. Just tell me what to do and I will do it. I promise I will listen and trust you.”

“We need to go home.”

Bran settles again and Jon sits back on his root. He explains to Bran that he’d like to have a meeting between them and Jaime Lannister. He asks if it is alright to request so much of him, and his sight. Bran agrees to tell them as much as he can, but that he will need Meera to be with him when he does. Then they sit quietly for a while. Jon knows they should head back, but he stalls a little longer as the temptation to ask grows harder for him to ignore. Finally, he just says it.

“When Melisandre brought me back,” he whispers down to his hands, “she said I'm the prince who was promised.” He feels foolish as the words leave his mouth and he can’t bring himself to meet his brother’s eyes. Then he adds with a quick mutter, “She said I’m the one who’ll bring the Dawn.” 

Jon waits for a reply that doesn’t come. It takes a moment for him to realize he hadn’t actually formed a question, though. 

With a deep breath, and the voice of a scared child, he asks, “Bran, is it true? Am I the one who was... promised?”

“No, you're not,” he answers certainly. Jon closes his eyes with a sigh, unsure whether to be relieved or devastated. Then the Raven adds, “Your child will be.”

***

Sansa almost runs into Brienne’s shoulder as she rounds the corridor. The baby, she saw it again. But she couldn’t bear to look at it for more than a flash, not there, not with them both watching her. Brienne sees her look of panic and she doesn’t ask any questions, only follows her lady’s quick paces back to the castle.

When they are safely back in her chamber, Brienne grabs her by the shoulders as her breathing has turned to gasps. “Sansa, calm down. What happened?”

Tears fall down her cheeks and Sansa squeezes her eyes closed, but all she can see is that baby and so she opens them again, wide with panic.

“I saw it,” she mutters as Brienne moves her into a chair. 

“Saw what? Sansa, talk to me!” 

Brienne is kneeling in front of her now, pressing her arm firmly to keep her alert. The way Sansa’s eyes keep glossing over has her scared, and she is about ready to call for someone when her hand is suddenly pulled into the girl's tight grip. Sansa is trembling. 

Finally, she looks up to Brienne and says, “I’m pregnant.” 

Brienne’s face shifts with gentle concern and she squeezes Sansa’s hand. “I told you last night, we don’t know anything. It's still early and you haven't seen the maester yet. There’s no use getting yourself upset until-”

“No,” she insists, shaking her head. “I saw it, with Bran. A baby, I saw it.”

Sansa falls forward, crying into the knight’s armored breast. Strong arms wrap around her again, as they had the evening before. She is rocked and soothed, all of her incoherent mutterings quieted with a reassurance of, “It’s going to be alright.” 

When Sansa's settled down, Brienne brings her some water to drink and a damp towel to wipe her face. She holds her hand again as they sit quietly, and she can see Sansa’s mind racing with all of the reasons she should be scared. They are all of the reasons Brienne has listed in her own mind ever since she started to suspect something between the two. 

But now, holding the hand of this woman she's grown to love as if she were her own blood, Brienne finds herself filling with joy. She can’t explain it, even to herself. The thought of Sansa holding her own child, born of love, feels like the greatest blessing she can imagine. With all the horror in the world, the evil they’ve both seen too much of, how could this new life be anything but a gift?

“Sansa, listen to me.” Brienne sits across from her now, leaning forward as she offers her delicate counsel. “I know that you're afraid, anybody would be. And I know how much is at stake for you right now, for both of you.” 

Sansa sits back a little, watching her friend closely as she speaks. “You are one of the bravest people I know, and certainly the cleverest. You know that things are different now, everything is different. The Starks are coming home to Winterfell, the dead are marching on the Seven Kingdoms, dragons have returned, and Jon bloody well came back to _life_.”

The look on Brienne’s face is so queer that Sansa finds herself wanting to laugh. Instead she just looks down at her folded hands in her lap. She considers them for a moment, not really sure why. Then, as if moving on their own, she sees her fingers spreading out, unfolding as her palms shift up her body and press a gentle embrace against her belly. 

“I don’t have visions that tell me what the future holds,” Brienne tells her softly. “But you must believe me when I tell you that everything is going to be alright. I just know it. And you will always have me.”

Sansa smiles at her, relaxing her body at last. “Thank you,” she whispers. The words are never enough, but it’s all she can offer for now. 

“You should talk to Jon.”

“I know. I’m just scared.”

“He loves you,” she promises. “I have always been worried about what it might mean for you two to be together. The dangers you face already… but no matter how much I worried, how much I want it not to be true, it was always clear that you belong together.”

Sansa nods, almost defeated as she sighs, “I know. I’ve tried to figure out a way to deny it, but I can’t. It’s like the world doesn’t make sense any other way, not anymore.”

“Jaime once told me we don’t get to choose who we love,” Brienne tells her, smiling softly to herself. “I think he’s right. With so little of it in the world, if you’re lucky enough to find a piece then you should hold onto it. Defend it with everything. Otherwise, what are we fighting for?”

“Is that what you plan to do?” Sansa asks subtly. It takes a moment, but then Brienne looks at her. “You should go with him to Dragonstone. He needs you, and you want to be with him.”

“My lady-”

“Don’t do that, Brienne.”

“Sansa,” she continues firmly. “I’m not leaving you, especially not now. Ser Jaime is more than capable of speaking to Lord Tyrion without my help.”

“But you do love him,” Sansa pushes. Brienne only closes her mouth. “He loves you, that much is clear. Don’t you think he’d want you to go with him?”

“That isn’t the point,” she argues, but Sansa can see she’s blushing. “My duty is to you, and Ser Jaime would never ask me to-”

“Of course he wouldn’t,” she interrupts again. “That’s why you have to suggest it.”

“It’s. Not. Happening.”

Sansa sighs, and now she leans forward to offer her own counsel. “I’m safe, you know that. As safe as I can be. I will always trust you to protect me, to be there when I need you. But if the world is ending, it is ending for all of us. And if we save it, we will save it together.” It is difficult not to admire the force of her conviction.

“Ser Jaime’s mission might be the key to everything. You can help him, you know that.” Brienne looks as though she wants to argue, but Sansa doesn’t let her. “More importantly, you said it yourself, now is the time to hold on to love.”

Brienne sighs and leans back in her chair, as if she is now the one burdened with the weight of the world. Sansa stands and moves to check her face in the mirror, a signal that the debate is concluded. Then, to solidify the point as well as lift the mood, she says, “You swore me your service, Lady Brienne. I’m ordering you to escort Ser Jaime to Dragonstone, where you will represent my interests.”

She turns back to Brienne who still looks defiant, but then she nods her agreement. The knight stands to leave, offering a gentle smile, when Sansa adds, “I’m ordering you to come back, too. No matter what happens.”

Sansa throws her arms around Brienne and they embrace tightly, both afraid as well as happy for each other. When they part, Brienne studies Sansa for another moment and then squeezes her shoulder with encouragement.

“Talk to Jon,” she urges softly. “You’ll feel better once you do.”

“Talk to me about what?”

They both gasp as they turn to see him standing in the doorway. His eyes move back and forth between both of their terrified faces. Then he moves closer, and Brienne turns back to her lady, silently asking if she should stay. 

Sansa thanks her again with a gentle hand on her shoulder, then nods her dismissal. With a careful glance at Jon, and the hint of a kind smile, the knight leaves them to speak alone.


	49. The Baby

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa tells Jon she is pregnant.

“What is it, Sansa?”

She opens to her mouth to answer but no sounds come out. He moves closer to her but all she can do is look at him. His face is so beautiful, even twisted with concern. Sansa thinks he will touch her soon, his body coming so close that she can feel his warmth. But then he stops, standing back slightly with a flash of anger in his eyes.

“This better not be about marriage,” he accuses her. 

Her eyes widen and she whimpers, “What?”

“Bran told me you were plotting to arrange a marriage between me and one of the Manderlys.”

His scorn is palpable and she closes her eyes with a rush of both irritation and relief. “Honestly,” she sighs, “that boy needs to learn how to mind his own business.”

“This isn’t funny, Sansa. What are you doing?”

“Nothing,” she promises. Sansa places a cautious hand on his chest, and when he looks unconvinced she continues. “I promise, it was just a thought I shared with Brienne, in _confidence_ , because I was confused. I’m not arranging anything, I swear it.”

He sighs, and then his hands come around her in an embrace. She lays her head on his shoulder and lets him comfort her with soft strokes up and down her back. It had only been a day since they’d last touched each other, but they were starved for it, both of them. Sansa pulls him closer and she feels him molding to her shape. 

“Sansa,” he asks softly, “does Brienne know about us too?”

She laughs a little into his neck and Jon groans with discomfort. “It’s alright,” she promises as they break apart again. Sansa moves a lock of his hair back into place and finds herself staring at his face again. “She’s my fiercest defender, and my friend. We can trust her.”

Jon looks as though he might argue his standing in her guard, but Sansa deflects it when she lowers her hand to hold his. She looks down at their touch, her eyes fighting to stay dry, and he laces his fingers with hers. 

“What is it, sweet girl?” 

His voice is so gentle it makes her lose the battle and a single tear falls down her cheek. But she’s smiling, just a little, and so he waits for her without pushing. 

“Jon,” she begins nervously, still looking at their hands. “Jon, I… I need to tell you something. But I don’t know how…”

His other hand lifts to the back of her neck and he strokes the side of her face with his thumb, inviting her to look at him. She does, and her eyes have the same fright he’d seen earlier through her looking glass. 

“Don’t be afraid, my love. I’m right here.” 

She takes a deep breath and more tears fall, washing away her fears. Loosening her fingers from his, she pulls him slowly by the wrist, lifting his hand until it is pressed against her belly.

He looks to where he’s touching her, locked in a stillness that leaves them suspended outside of time. Heavy lashes obscure his eyes from her as he continues to stare downward, but then the drop of a tear falls onto his hand and Sansa realizes it didn't come from her. 

“Jon,” she whispers. 

She gets no reply, no glance and no words. Her body starts to feel weak and just as she thinks she might fall he lowers himself before her, the hand that held her neck now wrapping around her waist, holding her strong. 

He is kneeling, the touch on her belly shifting slightly as he brings his lips to her body. He kisses her stomach sweetly a few times before he presses his face into her, bringing her body closer with both hands gripping her back. 

Sansa pulls him against her, draping him her arms around the strength of his shoulders. 

“Sansa,” he muffles against her dress. 

She breathes deeply again, the air filling her in a way that lifts her whole body, and his with it. There is a flutter that passes through her, flowing in with the breath, saturating her heart, her belly, her skin touching his, his tears washing over her.

“Are you angry with me?” he asks her belly, moving his hand back to stroke it softly. Then he looks up to see the surprised on her face. “I know it wasn’t right, but I couldn’t stop myself.”

He takes a deep breath, and then his face hardens as he offers the truth up to her. “Only, I could have. Sansa, I could have stopped but in that moment, I… I wanted it to happen. I hoped for it. I have ever since.”

Jon lowers his head again, unable to continue looking at her shock. He should feel ashamed of himself. He knows it was wrong, but even now he can’t help feeling satisfied in his conquest. He knows she should feel betrayed, but he’s ready to confess his crimes before gods and men. He wanted this. He did this. 

In a wave of movement that he isn’t prepared for, Sansa lowers herself, meeting him on her knees. Then she thrusts her hands into his hair and pulls his face up to look at her. Her eyes search his back and forth as he waits for her to say something. Instead, she pushes her lips against his in a force so strong it topples them both to the floor. 

Catching her on his chest, he holds her tightly as she grinds her kiss into him so hard that their teeth pinch together through closed lips. They aren’t doing more than pulling and pressing, trying to merge their bodies together in a fusion of flesh and bone, but it is causing them both to pant from exertion. 

Jon rolls her to the side, one arm hooked beneath her and the other wrapped in her hair. She opens her mouth to him and his tongue brushes her bottom lip, savoring the soft flesh, pulling it gently with his teeth. Sansa releases a soft whimper and then he consumes her mouth again, his tongue meeting hers in a sensual, sloppy dance that leaves them both aching with desire.

Sansa lifts one of her legs around him, but her heavy skirt confines her movement so he pulls her knee to stretch her further. They begin to push against each other in a frustrating battle against thick layers of leather and wool. Jon searches for any access to her body, finding only the material on her chest to be somewhat thinner. 

He gropes her desperately, pulling on her breasts until she fears he may rip the fabric open. Sansa wraps her hand around his, her fingers shifting him away from her body as she whispers, “Jon, stop.” 

His body stills, but his breath remains heavy as he looks at her, propping himself up beside her. She smiles at him and then kisses his hand before sitting up. When she begins to stand, he gets to his feet first and helps her up. Then he waits for her next move. 

Sansa blushes a little, looking like a nervous maiden, and he smiles at her with a kind devotion that reveals his own nerves as well. Slowly, she pulls her hair around her shoulder, freeing the remains of her braid with delicate fingers, and then turns around to present him the laces he’d helped her tie up that morning. His hands move to them, shaking a little as he fumbles to loosen the knot. 

When the laces come free, he brings his hands to her shoulders and gently pulls the dress down her arms, over her hips, and to her feet as she steps out of it. Then he lifts it from the floor and drapes it over the chair by her vanity with an agonizingly slow care that makes the air thicken around them with every second that passes by. She moves closer to him as he turns back to her. Her eyes inventory his body as his stay locked on hers. And then they are racing, pulling and ripping at each layer still covering the other’s skin until all that remains is a pile of discarded clothing on the floor.

Jon and Sansa stand before each other, naked and breathless, their bodies separated enough that they can gaze at their lover fully. His cock hangs heavily as it grows under her watch, and Sansa can feel her gravity swelling. She mindlessly brings her own hand to her sex, pressing against the pressure that is building there. He fills his lungs and then moves to her, closing the distance between them as she closes her other hand around his base. 

Relieving them both with her cool touch, she soothes their aching with slow, hard strokes. Jon brings his hands to her elbows, holding her as she works him, as she works herself, and then he drops his panting jaws to her neck. His body begins to push against her and soon she moves her hands to his back as the press gets too tight. He is crushing his need into her hips, the soft curls of her mound brush against his sensitive skin.

Sansa pulls back from him, catching her breath as he burns without her touch. Then she turns and he follows the rounded sway of her ass as she moves toward the bed. His eager pace to follow her stalls though when she reaches the edge and bends over, lifting her knee to the mattress and pulling herself onto it with her legs spread open to him from behind. She glances back at him for a moment before turning her hips to settle herself down in the center of the bed. 

He swallows and moves closer. Sansa stretches out on her side, reaching a hand to him that he takes as he joins her on the bed. Sitting back on his knees, he looks down at her, running his fingers up and down the long curving length of her side. Then he touches her hair, lifting a fallen strand from her shoulder and gliding its silky texture through his fingers. 

Sansa rolls onto her back and smiles sweetly at him. She lays her hand on his chest and he leans down to kiss her, shifting his body to lay beside her. Their hands lace together between them and he kisses her fingers softly. 

“Are you alright,” he whispers gently.

“Yes,” she breathes contentedly. “Jon, I’m more than alright.”

His smile flinches a little. “You are?”

She nods and kisses him sweetly. Then she squeezes his hand and says, “I’m just scared, that’s all. But I love you, and I’m happy.” She brings his hand back to her belly, holding hers on top of his in a silent promise. 

“I’ll never let anything happen-”

But she stops him with her fingers on his mouth. “Not now,” she whispers. “Let’s not think about any of that now.” Then she moves her hand to the nape of his neck and pulls his lips to hers again. 

They take their time, exploring every movement and curve of their bodies together, tasting the expanses of each other with a thirst that can’t be quenched. Jon’s lips travel over her skin, marking her with his kisses on every corner and slope of her shape. He rolls her onto her stomach, pressing her flat against feather bed with his hands as his mouth traces a path down her spine. 

Sansa arches against his touch, and when his hands reach the fleshy mounds of her ass, she lifts her hips a little and her knee slide apart. He kneads her harder, his kisses still teasing her lower back, but then she bucks back again and his resistance crumbles. His rough fingers spread her open wide to him and his tongue pushes through her slick folds, lapping and lashing, over and in and even up to her tight pucker. He pushes through that too. 

He devours her, feasting with a king’s appetite while she begs into the pillow for mercy. Her hips push higher and higher against his face and soon she is practically on all fours. She reaches behind her to pull him away by his hair, but Jon fights for a few more bites before releasing her at last. 

She falls back to the bed and rolls onto her back, her breasts heaving deeply with her pants and her fiery hair spread out wildly around her. “Seven hells, Jon,” she gasps. He grins maliciously at her and she reaches across to shove him, but he catches her wrist. 

Moving over her, Jon lifts her arm above her head, stretching her body long, and then delicately traces her with his fingers again until his touch finds perch around her breast. His other hand moves between them, pressing the tip of his cock against her longing flesh. 

When he enters her, the scorch of their desire seers through them both and they howl the lewd song of lovers into each other’s throats. His length fills her, stretching her open with his possessive claim in one sharp lunge. Sansa shifts her hips, trying to adjust to the presence of him within her and the movement has him ready to spill already. 

“You’re so tight,” he moans into her hair as he grips the furs beneath her. He’s trying desperately to maintain control. 

“Does it feel good?” she asks him innocently. 

“Gods yes.” 

It turns her on to hear how she affects him, to feel the pulse of his lust inside of her. She feels a new flush of desire coat her walls in response to his words and his shallow rocking slickens, making his thrusts become deeper and longer. 

“Oh Jon,” she cries out. He lifts himself to her lips, kissing her deeply as his pace starts to quicken. Then he holds himself above her, watching her face flush with desire as moves within her. 

Sansa pulls one knee higher around him and he hold onto her thigh in a tight grip as he fucks her harder. The sound of her slick desire slaps in his ears as his cock ravishes her cunt without restraint. Then she pulls both legs up, wrapping them around his waist her with her ankles linked together. 

He groans against her lips and she starts to whine as the pressure builds and her legs squeeze around him. He slows his pace but lengthens and hardens each thrusts to match the strong pulls of her thighs. 

“Like that?” he asks her intimately. She bites her lip and nods, and he watches her rise and fall with his movements, coming closer and closer to the brink. “You’re so beautiful,” he whispers. 

Her eyes flutter shut and her forehead starts to fold. He watches every detail of her keening face with sharp concentration as he feels her beginning to tighten and pulse around his cock. She opens her mouth in a silent scream and the waves of her grip course along his length in way he’s never felt before. Just as she hits the tip of her peak, his gush meets hers in a rushing flood, pouring into her and around him, leaving them both drenched in sweat and seed. 

He lays motionless on top of her, neither able to move a muscle as they gasp desperately for the breath of life. Her limbs ache in their twisted lock around him and his weight crushes her as he can no longer hold himself in balance. 

When their breathing starts to even, he presses soft kisses to her cheek and she nuzzles into them. Her ankles separate and her feet rest lightly against his thighs, her fingers twirling playfully in his hair. 

“I love you so much,” he tells her quietly. 

Then she kisses his lips blissfully and replies, “And I love you.” 

Jon holds her close as he moves to his side, bringing her next to him with their bodies still joined, her leg draped loosely over his hip. He kisses her again and his tongue teases hers softly in their lazy haze. She lets out a soft moan as his wet, spent cock falls from her hold and rests against her. The pool between her legs drips onto her thigh and the feeling of it gives her a primal rush. 

Sansa rests her head on his shoulder and he wraps his arms around her in a warm embrace. She never thought she could feel like this, as happy as she is in this moment, and the worries that plagued her for so long seem to have disappeared entirely. No harm could ever come to her when she is in his arms. There is no other place that she belongs.

Jon’s mind starts to drift as he strokes gentles circles into her skin. He pictures her belly growing round. He sees their child cradled in her arms, suckling at her gentle breast. He can hear her singing soft lullabies and reciting the stories of princesses and knights. There is no fear in him for what’s to come, no concern for the dangers they face once they leave this bed. All he knows is that he has her in his arms, he has them both, and he will defeat anything that dares to threaten his family now. 

Eventually Sansa shifts, despite his protest of pulling her closer, and she tells him regretfully that she must get ready for her meeting with Lady Wynafryd. 

He groans into her chest, “Not to discuss marriage proposals, I hope.”

She laughs, stroking back his curls. “No, I promise. I’m finished with all of that. You’re mine now Jon Snow. Always.” 

He kisses her again, still holding her captive, and she lets him for a little longer. “So, what is your meeting about?” he asks as a stalling tactic, she suspects. Jon rests his face on her breasts, brushing them softly against his beard. 

“We’re organizing a women’s court. Most of the men are in Winterfell now and the women need a council to discuss the roles they face in this war. It hasn’t been easy for them, managing their homes, organizing efforts for the refugees, taking up the trades. The people of the city have great love for their ladies, and they seem to return it. With the women getting organized, I think their leadership will be crucial to everyone’s recovery once the wars are over.” 

Sansa has drifted into her own reverie as the ideas she’s eager to present at her meeting take shape in her mind again. She is so concentrated in that moment that she doesn’t notice Jon staring at her with total admiration until he says her name. 

“What?” she wonders when he just continues to stare. 

He laughs and presses another kiss to her jaw. “You’re simply incredible, that’s all.” 

Sansa moans at the feeling of his lips on her neck and starts to fall back against the pillow as his touch deepens again. He almost sweeps her away, but then she gathers herself and pressing him back saying, “Jon, please.”

He sighs in defeat and gives her one last kiss before releasing her and rolling fully onto his back. She sits up and moves to stands from the bed, but then gasps when she sees blood staining his penis. Jon looks down at it, confused, and then back to her as he sits up. 

“Sansa, did I hurt you?” 

His voice is breathless with panic, but she doesn’t answer. Instead she moves quickly to the wash basin and picks up a towel. Jon watches the back of her as she leans forward and presses the towel between her legs. Then she straightens her back again, head bent for a moment in examination, before her shoulders fall with a sigh. 

“It’s my moon blood,” she tells him quietly, still facing away. She washes herself demurely as he watches her in stunned silence. He wishes she would look at him, he needs to see her face. 

“Sansa, I thought…” 

“I was wrong.” 

Jon doesn’t understand the words at first, and he can’t explain what is happening inside of him. Everything seems to be echoing and floating around with nothing solid taking shape. He can vaguely recognize her move about the room as she dresses, but his mind is blank, stalled with incomprehension. 

Then something wet touches him as he looks up to see her handing him a wash towel. He reaches for it, but then takes her hand instead, and that’s when the pain rushes in as though he’s lost a piece of himself. Only, he hasn’t really. It was never there. So why does this hurt so much?

She sits on the side of the bed and he pulls her hand to his heart as he continues to stare at the distance. When a tear falls from his eye, Sansa pulls his attention to her with his name. 

“Why are you so upset,” she asks gently. She can admit she feels deflated herself, but Jon’s is pale as a ghost. “Nothing happened. I didn’t lose- Jon I was never-”

“I know,” he interrupts. He shakes his head a little and tries to offer her a smile. “I’m sorry, it was just a shock I guess.” 

She watches him carefully and when his eyes start to look afraid, she knows he’s hiding something. “Jon, what aren’t you telling me?”

He sighs and squeezes her hand. “It’s nothing. Just something Bran said.” 

Suddenly, Sansa feels her body surge with rage at the mention of her brother. It seems irrational to her at first, but the response is instant and fierce, almost murderous. Jon thankfully doesn’t notice though, as his mind is still somewhere else with the Raven’s words. 

“I have to get to the meeting. Will you meet me here later? We’ll talk about this more.” Jon nods absently and she puts a hand on his face, bringing his eyes to her. “I don’t want to leave you.”

“Go,” he tells her with a gentle smile. “I’m alright, really. Just being ridiculous.” 

Sansa kisses him softly and then leaves. As the door clicks shut behind her he lowers his brow to his hands and tries to slow the spinning in his head.

***

The meeting isn’t due to start yet, but she needed extra time to take care of another matter first. Her fury builds as she marches down the stone steps and up the long corridor toward his room. She pushes her way inside without a glimpse at the guards or a knock on the door. Even Meera gasping to pull her furs around her in their bed doesn’t halt her mission for a heartbeat.

Bran stays motionless beside his shocked lover, now questioning the intruder frantically. Sansa only barely registers that his eyes are all white as she approaches him steadily and grabs him firmly by the arm. 

Millions of images flash by, speeding so fast that she can’t comprehend any of them, and yet each one pierces her psyche in a series of punctures so overwhelming that she starts to scream. Only she can’t get any sound to come out. She pushes and pushes, feeling her throat ache with the strain, and yet the cries only choke her further into silence as they build. 

When she comes to again, she is slumped on the floor and a robed Meera is helping her to sit up. “What were you thinking,” she scolds as she pulls up from under Sansa’s arms. 

Meera manages to get her into a chair and then rushes back to Bran, pressing his forehead softly with the back of her hand as she whispers soothing words to him. When she is satisfied he’s okay, she moves back to the table and sits across from Sansa who is still reeling from the shock of what just happened.

“Are you alright?”

Sansa doesn’t answer, but her eyes shift to Meera for a moment and then back to Bran.

“Why did you do that?”

“I wanted to see…” she murmurs.

“See what?”

“I touched his hand before, in the godswood. I saw a baby. He showed it to me. He showed me before, too.” Sansa is rambling, dazed with her eyes still on her brother. “I wanted to see…”

Meera sighs and tells her, “That’s not how it works.” 

Suddenly Sansa’s anger returns and her voice raises as she demands, “How does it work, then? Tell me. Why is he doing this to me. What does he want?” 

“Meera,” he calls softly from the bed. 

Both women turn toward him and then Meera is on her feet, helping him lift into a seated position. 

“Are you alright,” she asks him gently, but then his eyes turn to his sister and he lowers his brow in confusion. 

“Sansa? What are you doing here?” 

She doesn’t answer and he turns back to Meera who tells him, “She grabbed your arm while you were inside. I think she went in too. Her eyes left until I pulled her hand away from you and she collapsed.” 

Sansa stands, slowly moving closer to her brother’s bed. “Why can I see things when I touch you, Bran?” 

He looks lost with the question. “I don’t know, I… The godswood. What did you see?” 

“You know what I saw.”

“Sansa, I don’t. I swear it.” He leans forward, reaching for her, but she pulls back sharply and he stops. “I didn’t know,” he tells her sadly. 

“She said she saw a baby,” Meera tells him before offering Sansa an apologetic glance. 

Sansa watches as Bran’s face pales with understanding. Then his eyes stare at her eerily and she gets the overwhelming sensation that he is searching her invasively. 

“Stop it,” she orders, and his eyes sharpen again. “I’m not here so that you can intrude on my privacy and deliver cryptic messages that will drive me to madness.”

“Why are you here,” he asks calmly.

Sansa holds out her hand, resting it palm up on the furs in front of him, and says, “Show me. I want to see the baby.”

Meera watches them both cautiously, tempted to demand that they leave each other be, but then Bran reaches out and she sees both their eyes turn completely white.


	50. The Old Gods

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa pray together in the godswood

Jon falls asleep in Sansa’s bed. He’d forgotten that he'd found no sleep the night before, and after his morning of so many highs and lows he was easily conquered by the soft pillows that still smelled of her. 

His dreams are of his father. The hard, lined face of Lord Eddard Stark stands before him, strong and righteous. He looks so familiar, like home, but this is no memory. Jon’s never seen him look like this before. There is a darkness is his father. The nearly black eyes that matched his own are staring at him with a rage so terrifying that Jon reaches for his sword only to find an empty scabbard.

“Father,” he cries, backing away as Lord Stark approaches. “Father, please.”

The man looms so murderously that Jon stumbles over stones and falls to the ground. It is only then that he recognizes where he is. These are the crypts of Winterfell. Statues surround him, the stone kings, and all of their faces are glaring down at him like Father’s. 

He scrambles, crawling over dirt and rock, scraping his hands along the deep tunnel floor until he sees a red light coming from the upturned palm of the last visage. Cornering himself, with nowhere else to run, he hides behind the glowing statue. Grabbing onto the marble skirts, Jon cowers, trembling with a fear he’s never known before. He glances around the statue for a moment and sees snarling wolves draw near, stalking slowly beside his father towards their prey. Jon hides again, pressing his back against the hard woman, squeezing his eyes shut as he begs for mercy.

“I’m sorry,” Jon calls out. “Father, please. I never wanted to betray you.”

He hears a crash, but he can’t look. The ground is shaking and the growls approach. 

“I love her! Please, I love her. I didn’t mean for this… Father, I died!" His voice breaks and then he is whispering his pleas, "I died... I need her, please.” 

The earth is falling around him, the crypts are caving in. When he breathes, dust fills his lungs, choking him as he cries. He is about to scream and then a gentle hand touches his face. 

“Darling,” she whispers, but he’s too afraid to look. “My love, you have to find her. Find Sansa.” 

With this his eyes open wide, and the face before him is obscured by dust and debris. _Arya?_ No, it isn’t her. 

“JON!” his father booms, and suddenly Jon is on his feet before him. “Find her! Find her before it’s too late. You promised!”

He looks around, panicked and lost in the dark. He doesn't understand. "Where?" he asks his father, and then he sees a single candle burning at the end of the dark passage and he runs toward it. The ground shakes harder and the statues start to crumble around him as he passes. He turns back to see his father and the woman being buried in the collapse. 

“Father!” he calls, but if he doesn’t keep going he will be buried too.

“Jon, go! Now!”

He runs as fast as he can, but just as he nears the candle its flame dies and darkness surrounds him. Then he hears his name again. “Jon? M.. m’lord?”

“Please,” he moans as his eyes open, blurred and taking in new light. 

“Are you alright, m’lord?” 

He looks around, his chest still burning with the speed of his heart. “Podrick?” he gasps, confused. 

“Yes, m’lord. I was um.. looking for Lady Sansa.”

Jon looks around again and remembers where he is, Sansa’s room. He sits up, realizing that he is still naked, and it takes a few more seconds of shaking his head to conjure a response for the waiting squire.

“She went to a meeting with the Manderlys,” he murmurs as the waves of his dream still collapse over him. 

“No, m’lord. That’s where I’ve just come from. They’ve been waiting for her, but she hasn’t arrived so they sent me to find her.”

 _Find her,_ they scream in his mind, and suddenly he is out of bed and scrambling to dress as Podrick watches in stunned silence. As he tucks his still stained cock into his breeches, he glances at Pod who looks terrified. 

“We need to find her,” Jon orders as he pushes past the gawking boy. “Come with me.”

As they march through the hall, Jon questions where Lady Brienne is and Podrick informs him he thought she was with Lady Sansa. This only makes him snarl with rage. Not at her, though. At himself. He knew why Brienne had left them with privacy. The woman only ever leaves her post when she knows he is there to protect her, but he hadn’t done the same. He was too thrown by the shock of the morning to make sure Sansa was guarded when she left him.

“Find Brienne,” he tells Podrick as they reach the main floor of the castle. “I’ll search the tunnels.”

“What tunnels?” Pod asks, but Jon only answers with a glare instructing him to follow his command. 

As they split up, Jon curses himself again. How could he lose his head like that? Sure, it was a blow, but Jon had felt as though he'd disappeared for a moment. He'd been so lost in his own mind that he hadn’t even tried to comfort her, much less protect her. _Why?_ It was the words of his brother that-

Jon stops in his tracks. _Bran!_ He doubles back and practically sprints towards Bran’s room. When he draws near though, he hears a loud voice coming from inside. It’s her. 

Jon takes a deep breath of relief but it is soon forgotten when he gets close enough to understand what she is yelling.

“You have to tell him!”

There is a muffled response that he can’t make out but then Sansa’s cries come through again.

“I don’t care! If you don’t tell him, I will. I swear-”

“Lady Sansa!” It is different woman yelling now.

The panic in this new voice has him throwing open the door to see his sister lying unconscious on the floor, with Meera Reed crouched over her. He looks to his brother who is watching the scene from his bed, panting, and he sees a strange panic in the boy's eyes.

“What happened?” Jon demands as he drops to her. “Sansa, wake up.” 

“She’s collapsed,” Meera tells him frantically. 

“She needs the maester,” Bran instructs, but Jon is already lifting her into his arms. 

A few guards are nearing them when he exits the room, coming in response to the commotion. But he marches past them and climbs the steps of the maester’s tower without responding to any of the questioning looks. 

When he bursts through the door, Jon is surprised to see such a young man sitting inside and starts to look around for the maester before he sees the linked chains around the youth's neck. He takes in the sight of Sansa’s pale form and immediately directs Jon to place her on the bed near the wall. Once he’s laid her down, Jon steps back and watches as the healer examines her. He touches her neck and forehead, leans his ear over her parted lips, presses firmly against her sides and stomach and chest. Then he holds her wrist, almost in a pinch. 

“She fainted,” Jon tells him weakly. 

When the man lets go of Sansa’s wrist he pats it gently in a way that gives Jon no comfort. Then he moves to his cupboard and as he searches he asks Jon to fetch a cup of water. He manages the task with trembling hands and when he brings it to her bedside Jon sees the maester holding a small silk bundle up to her nose. Sansa shifts, her head moving to the side as if trying to escape the odor, then her eyes flutter open and Jon finally breathes again.

“There, there,” the young man soothes as he leans close to search her eyes. Sansa blinks heavily at him, confused. “Everything’s alright. I’m Maester Medrick, your brother brought you here because you had a bit of a spell, that’s all.” Jon sees him put a drop of something clear into the cup of water. Then he hands it to her, encouraging her to drink, and she manages a few swallows before laying her head back down on the pillow.

“Where…” she whispers, but her eyes won't focus and she can’t bring herself to sit up. The man shushes her, but she tries again, muttering, “Bran…”

“Sansa.” Jon moves closer and her blinking eyes recognize him, he thinks. “When you weren’t at the meeting I went to look for you. You were with Bran and-”

“ _Bran_ ,” she repeats again, but then her breathing begins to shorten and the maester tries to quiet her again. “You have to…” she strains.

“Please, my lady. You must rest. Your brother is quite worried about you.” Medrick looks to Jon and he takes it as permission to reach for her. He holds her hand and she sees him, but then her eyes close again.

“You’re not…” she sighs, and Jon thinks he feels her squeeze him, but then her hand falls loose. 

“What’s wrong with her?” he demands of the maester. “Help her!”

“It’s alright, she’s only sleeping. Her pulse is strong, but her nerves seem quite overcome so I have given her a tincture to help her relax. From her color I would say she hasn’t been eating enough. Has she been distressed or unwell?”

Jon roughly explains the demands of their journey. Then he tells the maester that she'd nearly fainted the night they arrived, and that she had vomited just yesterday. The maester looks at him with a strange glance, but Jon doesn’t notice as his eyes are still fixed on her face. He should have insisted she be seen that first night. No matter what, he seems to be failing her again and again.

The maester informs Jon that Sansa is likely just feeling overwhelmed. Then he asks Jon to step outside for a moment, meeting his argument with another promise that Sansa is in no grave danger, but then timidly clarifies that the remainder of his examination requires the young lady be provided privacy. 

“I’m not leaving her alone,” Jon insists. 

Just then Brienne and Podrick enter the solar, both looking equally terrified. 

“What happened? Is she alright?” Brienne begs.

“I don’t know,” Jon admits. “She fainted.”

“As I’ve already explained to her brother,” the maester interrupts, “Lady Sansa will be just fine. She needs rest, and to not be overwhelmed by a frantic crowd.”

Brienne scans Sansa from overtop the heads of the men standing in her way. Then she turns back to Jon with a sharp stare. “What about-”

Jon sighs and shakes his head, then tells Brienne, “He wants me to leave so he can examine her. She shouldn’t be alone.”

Brienne looks back to Sansa and asserts, “I’ll stay with her.” Jon stares at Brienne with eyes that beg for what is already given, and he sees that he doesn’t need her to swear him anything. They nod to each other and then she takes her place by Sansa’s side as Jon leaves her with one last worried look.

Once outside, Jon and Podrick stand across from each other in the small space at the top of the tower steps. Jon looks as though he may crawl out of his own skin and Podrick wants desperately to be useful.

“Can I do anything, m’lord? Fetch someone?” Jon doesn’t answer, but his eyes narrow as though he is trying to understand something. “Should I tell Lady Manderly what’s happened?”

“No,” Jon says finally. “Make an excuse for her, tell them she won’t be coming to the meeting. But don’t tell them why.” Podrick nods obediently and then leaves. 

Jon sits on the floor and strains his ears to hear the sounds failing to come from the other side of the door. His hands flex and fist, his breath deepens, and his throat tightens. The face of his father rushes at him with every blink of his eyes and so he comes to stare at a twisted knot in the wood paneled walls. Finally, his lips begin to silently move in prayer. 

 

***

 

“Please, Sansa. I didn't mean to do it but I need you to trust me.” 

He looks so different, like his old self, only taller. “Bran, how are you standing?”

“I need you to trust me,” he repeats. His face is trembling and he’s crying, afraid. She tries to reach for him but he’s too far away. “I can’t change it. He’ll die, we’ll all die. Just like Hodor. Sansa, I’m so sorry.” 

Sansa opens her eyes to a strange room and she doesn’t remember how she got here. The soothing scent of lavender fills her nose and she hears light whispers, then recognizes the voice of Brienne.

“Lady Sansa,” she says quietly. Sansa turns to see her sitting in a chair beside the bed she’s lying in. “You’re in Maester Medrick’s chambers. You fainted.”

She sits up, still trying to awaken fully, and sees a young man in robes washing his hands in a silver bowl. He smiles at her kindly, but his familiarity seems odd since she’s never met him before. When he approaches her bedside, Sansa looks around the room again and asks, “Where’s Jon?”

“He’s waiting by the door,” Brienne assures her. “I’ll go fetch him, but the maester wanted to speak with you alone first. I can wait outside if you’d like.”

“No,” she says quickly. Then she brings herself up to a more appropriate posture, smoothing the sheets around her lap in preparation. She turns back to the maester and informs him, “You can speak to me in front of Lady Brienne. She is my sworn sword and closest friend.” 

Brienne blinks twice at these words, but then refocuses her attention on the maester. Sansa folds her hands in her lap and nods to the young man. 

“First, I want to assure you there is nothing to be concerned about,” Maester Medrick begins comfortingly. “Though you must make better efforts to rest and eat well, particularly if you still intend to continue north in your condition. Winter is nearly here and-”

“Condition?” Sansa asks and Brienne looks at her, nodding discretely toward her stomach as though to indicate what the maester means. But Sansa shakes her head and turns back to him even more confused.

Medrick suddenly looks mortified and begs, “Pardon me, my lady. I'm terribly sorry, but were… were you not aware that you’re… with child?” 

She shakes her head again, looking to Brienne who is confused now, too. “I thought,” she begins slowly. Her eyes wonder for a moment and then she turns back to the maester. “But I bled today.” 

He nods, seemingly already aware of this fact which makes Sansa cringe uncomfortably. “This can be common in the early stages. The substance you saw was not menses, but a response to implantation of the…” He stops and swiftly grabs a pale for Sansa who is turning green. 

Brienne holds it for her and Sansa stares into the bottom for moment as she tries to slow the barrage of information running through her mind. She doesn’t know where she is, or who this man is, or what the words he’s saying mean. How did she get here? Her beautiful morning with Jon, when it seemed as though they had everything, and the moment when it all disappeared. All off it comes back to her and she doesn't understand. 

She pushes the bucket away once she’s sure that she will not need it. Then she takes a deep breath and the maester continues. “I understand the complications this must cause for you, my lady. For you and your brother both.” Sansa looks at him with a panic in her eyes. “Your house is currently at war with your husband,” he points out, almost apologetically. Then he nervously adds, “And of course House Manderly supports your efforts, Lord Bolton is… well, I just mean, I supposed what I’m saying…”

“What _are_ you saying?” Brienne asks curtly.

Medrick takes a breath, gathering himself, and then looks at Sansa with more conviction. “Some would have my chains for saying this to the heir of Winterfell, but if you would like to end this-”

“No!” Sansa nearly shouts, and the young maester looks mortified again. “No,” she repeats calmly this time, trying to make her reactions more neutral. “I’m sorry, this is just all a bit… Are you certain?" He nods and Sansa closes her eyes with a sigh that he is sure to misinterpret. It's for the best, though, him assuming this is Ramsay's child, even if the idea makes her sick. He'll assume she wants the news kept quiet, too. She'll use the monster's terror as her shield, if that's what it takes to keep them all safe, at least for now. "Thank you for all your help, Maester Medrick.”

“Of course, my lady. It is a great honor to serve House Stark and anything I can do for you while you’re here, please ask.” He bows to her sincerely and Sansa offers him a smile that soothes his concerns about having overstepped. “I can send your brother in now, if you’d like.” 

Sansa nods and then her heart jolts involuntarily, as if her body were trying to remind her of something. She had been so quick to accept that she’d got it wrong, that there was no baby. Before telling Jon, she might have expected to feel relieved, but she didn’t. There was no relief because she’d no longer feared it. But there was no shock or grief either, not like Jon seemed to have. In truth, when she saw the blood that signaled her empty womb, Sansa felt almost nothing. Only a familiar reminder of what she’d learned to too many times before, that everything good gets taken eventually. 

Now she will need to tell Jon again. He will be happy all over again, relieved, in love. But what then? What if the maester is wrong, or something else happens to take this away? Sansa's built strong armor against the pain of losing what she loves, but Jon… His face flows into her mind, the way he’d looked so lost, so broken. Then she remembers what she'd seen in her brother's room as Bran’s voice enters her head. 

_He can’t know, not until he’s taken back Winterfell._

She’d argued with him, told him he was wrong for not trusting Jon with the truth. But what if Bran is right? What if Jon gets distracted, or too disheartened? What if they lost this war? _No, it isn’t right. Jon needs to know. I don’t care what Bran says, the Three Eyed Raven can’t be right about everything._

When he comes through the door, his beautiful eyes find her and he rushes to her side. “I’m fine,” she promises and he takes a deep breath, cupping her face with his hand. “I just have to eat more. Really, Jon.”

“Are you sure?” he asks, and then he turns to Maester Medrick to clarify the question is for him. “Should she stay in bed?”

“Rest should be a priority, but I see no reason she should need to interrupt her normal affairs too much.” Medrick turns to Sansa who has moved to the side of the bed and is already lacing up her boots. “Would you like for me to escort you back to your chamber, my lady?”

“I think I can manage, and if I faint again then I’m sure one of these two will catch me. I doubt either of them will be letting me out of their sights anytime soon.” She smiles kindly to the maester and doesn’t have to look at them to know both Jon and Brienne are offended. “Thank you again, Maester Medrick.”

After a slow and overly cautious trek down the stone steps of the maester’s tower, the three of them emerge onto the main floor of the castle. Jon begins to say something but then stops when Sansa turns in the opposite direction of where they were meant to be heading. 

“Where are you going?” he asks, glancing at Brienne for guidance. She hasn’t any.

“I’d like to visit the godswood,” she replies quietly as they follow her. Then she looks toward Jon as he comes beside her. "Will you pray with me?” 

When they reach the tunnels, Sansa slips her hand into Jon’s and he holds it close. They approach in silence as they had before, Brienne standing guard at the entrance of the crumbling corridor, and when they enter the courtyard it's snowing. They watch it fall quietly beside each other for a moment, and then Jon moves his arm around Sansa’s waist. She rests her head against his, letting the snowflakes lightly kiss her face. 

“Jon,” she says softly, “would you marry me, if you could?”

He doesn’t answer, but she feels him turn toward her.

“If we were different people, if I was a bastard, or you weren’t my brother. If we were wildlings, maybe.” He remembers that day on the beach in the Quiet Isle, when he'd pictured children running along the shore. Her eyes stay focused on the weeping tree before them, but then he steps in front of her, forcing her eyes to his.

“Sansa,” he says firmly, “I love you. More than I’ve ever had any right to.”

“Jon,” she interrupts, not wanting to hear him debase himself, but he continues.

“All that matters to me is you. I’m not afraid of facing this, as long as I have you. I don’t care what it will cost, not anymore.” He takes ahold of her arms, but she shakes her head in protest.

“I’m not going to marry Robin and have you-”

“No, you’re going to marry me.”

Sansa is rendered speechless, at last. She looks at him, confused, wondering if perhaps Bran had told him after all while she was asleep. 

“After we take Winterfell, I’ll show the lords Robb’s letter. I’ll do it, I'll be the king and then I’ll take you as my wife. They won’t be able to stop me. I’ll steal you if I have to.” He laughs softly at her shocked expression.

“ _Steal_ me?”

“It’s how the wildlings do it. Sansa, I don’t care what they think of me, or what they try to do to me. I'll fight whatever battle stands in our way, and once they have you as their queen, they will tolerate the crimes of their king because they will love _you_. You will be a gift to them, even more so after suffering under the Boltons as rulers. We will take our people through the Long Night, and we will do it together.” 

He kisses her then, his need for her to be his forever coursing through his veins, but then he ends it quickly. Jon watches for her reaction as they part, and smiles when he sees tears of promise in her loving eyes. 

Sansa leads him over to the tree and they sit together on a root. “It’s been so long since I prayed in a godswood,” she whispers to the pale bark. “On the night of my wedding, I couldn’t bring myself to even look at the tree. I was playing a role, pretending to take my enemy as my husband. To speak a lie before the old gods, before a sacred weirwood,” she shakes her head and doesn’t finish. 

Jon takes her hand again and rests it in his lap, softly stroking her fingers. “I thought you always preferred the Seven.”

“I haven’t prayed to them either," she admits. "Not since they took Father’s head at the Great Sept. I hated going there after that, so I used to kneel before the stump of the old weirwood in King’s Landing. I'd pray for Robb and for my mother. I prayed that they would defeat the king and take me home. But the old gods can’t hear you in the South.”

Jon gently pushes a tear off of her cheek with his thumb and she looks at him. “What do you pray for now, sweet girl? The gods will hear you, and even if they don’t, I will.” 

She smiles, and he is warmed by it. Then she turns to him and holds his hands with both of hers. “I will pray for you, Jon. For us. I want the gods to watch over us, and take us home. That whatever we face, whatever comes to us or is taken away, that we will endure it together.”

“Sansa,” he begins, but she doesn’t want the chance to talk herself out of it, so she continues. 

“The maester says that I am pregnant,” she rushes and his voice disappears, his mouth remaining open with the shape of her name. “The blood, it wasn’t… I don’t know, but it’s still early. I don’t want you to-”

His lips silence hers and they press into each other so close that they can feel each other’s heart beating even through their thick clothes. Sansa wants to tell him everything, to tell him who he really is and all that she’s seen through Bran’s eyes. But then his begging cries return to her again. _He’ll die. We’ll all die._

She holds Jon against her and stares over his shoulder at the red eyes of the tree. Her heart calls out for the answer and before she can say anything else, Jon is lifting her from the root. She follows him, and as he kneels before the tree, she kneels too, taking her place beside him in the snow. They bow their heads and pray silently to the old gods, the spirits without names, and they listen to the soft whisper of the wind and the rustle of red leaves as the snowfall thickens around them. 

Sansa leans forward, eyes still closed, and places her hand in the mouth of the crying face. No visions come to her, no rush of being taken to another place or time, but her body warms with the heat of the blood inside the tree. She feels it filling her body with a sacred strength, the blood of Winterfell, the Kings of Winter, the Children of the Forest, and the First Men. All of them surround her and lay their swords at her feet, offering protection for their child, for her and for Jon, for all of them through all the wars to come. 

When she opens her eyes, Jon is watching her. She takes her hand from the tree and they both look down at the red sap on her fingers for a moment, and then the prayers are finished. A sound draws their attention behind them and Bran is there, with Meera by his side. As they approach, Sansa notices his motionless face is streaked with flush and it almost looks as if he's been crying.


	51. The Unknown

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bran confesses the truth.

“Bran, are you alright?” Jon watches his brother come closer, Meera pushing his chair. 

“I came here to speak with Sansa,” he says flatly, but there is a strain in his voice. “To speak with both of you.”

Meera positions Bran in front of Jon, but Sansa stays back nearer to the weirwood. Something makes her hesitates, but she isn’t sure what. She’s still conflicted over whether to tell Jon what she’d seen, but this is something more. Is she afraid of her little brother? “What do you want?” she asks sharply.

Jon turns to look at her, confused by her tone. But then Meera steps beside Bran and takes his hand. “Bran has been struggling with all of this, with who he is now.” She looks equal parts defensive and apologetic. “With who he _has_ to be.”

“I know, Bran.” Jon’s heart is pained for his little brother again. “I’m sorry you-”

Meera cuts him off, continuing with a nervous urgency. “It helps him, _I_ help him,” she explains as both of her hands close around the one she holds, “When I touch him, it helps him to remember himself.”

Jon and Sansa glance at each other and then watch as Meera smiles gently at Bran before moving behind him again. Then she explains, “He wants me to help him, now. He needs to talk with you both, as Bran.”

Meera places her hands on either side of Bran’s loose collar, pressing her fingers firmly against the slope of his bare shoulders. Bran closes his eyes for a moment, and there is a tension that Sansa sees flicker in his face, then he looks at her. 

His warning comes into her mind again - _He’ll die!_ \- and Sansa moves to Jon, placing herself just in front of him as a barrier. “You don’t have to do this, Bran.”

“Do what?” Jon asks, now looking back and forth between them with concern.

“I need to,” Bran says quietly, still looking only at Sansa. 

“Bran-”

“Sansa, I’m sorry. I never meant to hurt you.” This confuses Jon and Sansa both, but now Jon’s glare is solely focused on the boy who adds, “I didn’t know you were pregnant.”

The bottom drops out of Jon as it comes back to him. She’d been yelling at Bran, just before she collapsed. The look in his eyes, when Jon had opened the door, it wasn’t just fear but guilt. 

“What did you do?” he asks threateningly. 

Bran raises a hand and places it on top of Meera’s, a signal for her to explain in a way he knows he can’t. 

“He was worried, he didn’t mean to do it,” she tries, but Sansa moves closer now as though she is in a trance. 

“Bran?” she whispers to her brother. 

“He warged into you. You didn’t faint, he… took over.” Meera holds Bran tighter like she is afraid he’ll be attacked. 

Sansa’s breath leaves her completely, she stares at her brother in stunned silence with her mouth gaping open. She’s not even sure she knows what this means, but then suddenly she feels sick and steps back. 

“I’m sorry,” Bran says sadly, but then Jon is there. 

He moves Sansa behind him, keeping one hand on her arm as he searches both his brother and Meera for answers. “What exactly do you mean, took over?”

Meera takes a deep breath and tells them what Bran can do, that he can warg into more than just direwolves and crows. She explains that this isn’t something other wargs can do, and then she tells them the whole complicated truth about Hodor and how he died. The disturbing reality that Bran can enter the body and mind of someone else, and control them, is fully laid bare in horrific detail for them. 

“You told me he died protecting Bran,” Jon states blankly. He replays it all in his mind as Sansa trembles beside him, with his child in her womb, and it takes everything he has to remember that Bran is his brother, that he didn’t choose any of this. Then the sight of her unconscious body on his floor comes rushing back and he is now glaring at the dead-eyed raven. “But you did it, you _made_ him do it. You made him the way he was.”

A tear falls down Bran’s still face and Jon starts to regret his words. He’s still furious, though, and he turns to Sansa and sees her crying, too. He takes a breath and a moment to find his way. He looks at the three young warriors around him, each with wet eyes and lost stares, and suddenly he feels so old. 

“Sansa,” he says at last, turning to her and placing a gentle hand on her hip. “Are you alright?”

She cringes a little and he moves his touch from her waist to her hand, squeezing it once before turning back to Bran. 

“I’m sorry I said that,” he begins, rubbing his fingers into his brow. “Bran, I know this hasn’t been easy for you. It hasn’t been easy for any of us, and maybe you most of all. I can’t imagine seeing… all that you’ve seen.” 

He looks back at Sansa and her arms are folded around herself, she’s looking at the ground. Jon closes his eyes for a moment and then looks back to Bran with a sternness that resembles Eddard Stark.

“Bran, you can never do that again. To anyone, ever. She’s your _sister_.” His words are sharp with concern, and they grow louder with each breath. “Do you have any idea what could have happened? What _did_ happen? She’s pregnant!”

“I know, Jon, I’m sorry. Sansa, I’m sorry.” Bran tries to meet Sansa’s gaze but she won’t look at him, so he closes his eyes. 

“Why would you do something like that?” Jon is begging, begging for the true brother he knows to be in there, to come back to him. But Bran doesn’t answer, keeping his eyes closed as Meera lowers her face beside him. She watches him closely, as if he might suddenly explode, but only a small tug of his brow twitches as Sansa starts to speak.

“Because he wanted to keep me quiet.” Her voice is cold as she stares at the spot on the ground from which she gathers her strength for a moment longer. Then she turns to him at last.

Jon’s eyes follow Sansa as she moves closer. He tries to ask, “What do you-”

“I saw something, something he doesn’t want me to tell you.” She isn’t looking at Jon, only Bran. Her glare is locked now, waiting, and then the Raven opens his eyes. She pierces into them, almost daring him to do it. “Isn’t that right, Bran? I told you I would tell him if you didn’t, and you had to stop me. So you _took over_.”

“Please, Sansa.” 

His voice is pained and panicked, as though he’d gathered everything left in him that was human to speak them. He sounds so desperate that, for a moment, Sansa feels herself wanting to comfort him, but then she remembers feeling similarly before. _I need you to trust me,_ her weeping brother begged.

“You came into my dream,” she realizes. “When I was with the maester. You were in my mind, _again_! How many times have you been in my head? Gods, Bran are you hoping to drive me mad?” 

Sansa starts to look around wildly and her breathing quickens, as it had in the maester’s solar. She looks as though she might get sick and Jon rushes to her, steadying her in his arms.

“Sansa, I didn't mean-”

“Enough!” Jon snaps at his brother and he moves Sansa back to sit on the root. Kneeling before her, he whispers, “Breathe sweet girl, just breathe.” 

“I’m sorry, Sansa,” Bran calls out, but Jon continues to focus on calming her. Neither of them look at him and Bran squeezes Meera’s hand so hard that he hears her grunt, then he yells, “I’ll tell him! Sansa, I’ll tell him.”

Sansa and Jon both turn to Bran in a jerk. But when Jon looks back at her, he sees a new fear in her eyes, with all of her anger having vanished. He shakes his head, beyond frustrated with this, with the both of them. Visions and secrets and prophecies. They are all just children and all of them need to stop acting as if they have the power to control anything. _We’re tearing each other apart._

Jon throws himself to his feet and growls, “No.” He says it to Sansa and then turns to say it again to Bran. “Whatever it is, I don’t want to hear it.” 

They all watch him silently. He reaches out a hand to slowly stroke Sansa’s face with his gentle fingers, though his face remains hard, then he carefully moves to stand before his brother again. Bran lifts his face to Jon and waits.

“If you say I shouldn’t know, then I shouldn’t know. I’m trusting you, Bran. Tell me whatever you want, if you think it will help. I’ll listen to anything you have to say and I won’t question anything you choose not to. You can even send ghosts into my nightmares if you have to.” 

Jon pauses, considering the Raven closely, then he lowers himself in a crouch so that they are eye to eye. His voice quiets, threateningly.

“But from now on, you leave Sansa out of it. If there’s something she needs to know, you tell me. You don’t watch her, or get into her head, or her body, ever. Do you understand me?”

Bran nods, looking Jon in the eye, and says, “I promise.”

Jon leans forward and places a kiss on his brother’s forehead and then holds him by the back of the neck, firmly but with love. “Family comes first, always. Even if we make mistakes, even if we lose, we have to remember that. All we have is each other.” 

He stands again and looks at Meera kindly. He nods to her, and then moves back to sit beside Sansa. They hear Bran tell Meera they should go, but before they reach the end of the courtyard, Sansa calls, “Wait.”

Jon watches her quietly as she stands and moves to her brother. She brushes a few tears from her face and then places her hand on his cloaked arm. “I love you,” she tells him. “You know that, right?’ 

Bran lowers his head and Jon sees his lips move, but the words are too quiet for him to hear. Sansa wipes a few more tears, and then watches Meera roll him away. 

As she returns to him, he opens his arms and she wraps herself around his body. They stay there quietly for a while longer, sharing sweet kisses in the snow, until the sweetness turns sweaty and Jon takes her back to his room. When they arrive though, to Sansa’s disappointment, he informs her that he’s brought her here to eat something and then sleep. Nothing more.

***

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” His tone is so rude that she looks up sharply at him, which was the goal. 

She’d come to his room unannounced, without knocking, paced around to the point that he was ready to poison himself just to escape the tedium, and now she is slumped in a chair staring silently into midair. 

“Brienne,” he says more gently, kneeling before her beautiful, murderous scowl. “Tell me what happened.”

“I can’t.”

“Yes, you’ve mentioned that. And yet, you’re still here, making it my problem.” She renews her glare and he smiles, taking her hand. “If you don’t tell me what that problem is, I can’t solve it for you. And if I can’t solve it for you, how will I ever impress you with my brilliant mind enough to win another kiss?”

The scowls and sneers drop from her face along with her jaw. Then she flusters slightly, and her blush makes Jaime feel like a conqueror. It satisfies him, for now, and he moves to sit in the chair beside her while still holding her hand. Squeezing it supportively, he offers, “Come on, I’m a good listener.”

“No you’re not,” she smirks. He smiles but doesn’t retort, only waits for her to keep talking. Brienne sighs, “Lady Sansa wants me to go with you to Dragonstone.”

“She does,” he repeats skeptically. Brienne nods, but her eyes shift downward. “Any particular reason?”

“To represent her interests with the dragon queen.”

“Ah.”

Jaime waits again. He has a feeling she wants him to pick a fight with her in order to get to what she really wants to say. But he won’t give her the satisfaction. He’s leaving tomorrow and, whether she comes with him or not, he wouldn’t mind spending the night with her in awkward silences, as long as he’s spending the night with her. He does let himself hope for moment, though. 

“I worry about leaving her, especially now.”

“Because the siege will begin soon?”

There is enough hesitation before she nods her agreement that Jaime gets suspicious. Brienne tries to change the subject and says, “You don’t need my help. I’m not a politician.”

“So, it’s your help Lady Sansa is sending with me, not her representation.” Jaime smiles and Brienne looks confused for a moment, as if she needed to get her story straight. 

“I’m a fighter,” she moves on, “I should be where the fighting is.”

“Sansa won’t be where the fighting is, so neither will you if you’re her guard. Are you telling me that you plan to forsake your vow to be her protector and fight in battle alongside her brother, risking your life to storm the walls of Winterfell against the Boltons, all to avoid a trip down south with me?” 

This time he’s silenced her completely. _No more lies. You don’t have to talk to me, just don’t lie._ Brienne has done everything she can to avoid his eyes, but now she is out of ideas and she looks at him. His face is soft, and kind. His eyes are more forceful, though. 

“Ser Jaime,” she says slowly.

“Brienne.”

The sound of her name on his lips, the way he’d almost purred it, has her on her feet. She peers down at him, unsure whether she should leave him or mount him, but then he stands too and they are eye to eye again. This time he looks at her with a seriousness that she’s seen before, on the bridge, in the bear pit, when he’d given her Oathkeeper. The time for games is finished, this is real. 

They keep open eyes on each other as their bodies inch closer, then he touches her right cheek before wrapping his hand behind her head. Finally, their eyes close as he pulls her to his lips. Brienne’s arms circle around his back and she holds onto him, holds him close as they share this long and confessing embrace.

She feels metal press into her back and the hand that holds her neck pulls her slightly away. Jaime presses his forehead to hers. “Brienne,” he whispers. Their eyes are both still closed and he shifts his face, pressing his cheek against hers. “I love you.”

Brienne lets out a sharp breath as her eyes fly open, and his grip pulls on her a little more. His thumb strokes her jaw line as if to apologize, but then she kisses him again, deeper and harder, until they are both holding each other by their shirt collars in a threatening stance. She gets his armor loose first, but he quickly catches up. 

The short journey from his hearth to his bed leaves a litter of leather and wool and linen in their wake, and when they fall atop the mattress they are both as naked as they’d been in the baths that day. The day she first saw him for who he really was, the day he’d told her that he trusted her. 

“How did we get here?” she asks up at him as he leans over to kiss her neck. 

“Can’t remember,” he mumbles pressing his lips to her skin. “Something about you being a politician, or was it a fighter?” 

“That’s not what I meant,” she points out, a little quieter, as the sensation of his mouth against her throat fills her voice with more breath. His body presses closer to her side and his arousal is calling for her touch.

Jaime pulls his kiss away for a moment and looks into her beautiful eyes again. “I know,” he smiles. Then he touches her hair, pushing his fingers gently through the pale waves that have tousled around her ear. 

“When I met you, I wasn’t a good man,” he tells her roughly. “I’m still not, but I’m a better man that I thought I could be. I’m a better man when I’m with you.”

Brienne strokes her hand down the arm that is balancing him above her. She starts to speak but he isn’t finished yet.

“I could never deserve you, Brienne. Not even close. You should be with someone far better than me. The honorable thing would be to let someone else have you, to let someone else love you.” Her face turns away from him, but he holds the corner of her jaw and moves her back to him. “But I am not an honorable man.” 

He moves over her, shifting her legs apart with his, and stretches the length of his body against hers. Brienne feels his cock press against her and her strong thighs open further to him. Her body melts into the touch of his and her fingers tighten against his back as a rush of heat flows through her skin. Everything about him has her in a state she’s never known before. His breath on her face, the dark need in his voice, but mostly the way he is trembling, only a little. It all has her feeling as though she is losing control for the first time in her life. 

“Show me,” she says deeply. 

Jaime swallows, then takes a shuddering breath as he presses his lips back to hers. She rolls her hips toward him and he eases his way in. He groans at the sensation of being inside her, touching her where no one else has. It makes him feel possessive and primal and even worthy. In her arms is the only place in this world that was meant just for him, where he belongs, as though she'd been there waiting for him all along. They are not foolish young lovers, and she is certainly no maid. She is a woman, grown and mighty, and inside her he is safe. 

They make love for hours, slowly at first, and then harder and stronger. He devours every inch of her body as though he will never get another chance. A part of him knows he probably won’t and each time, after they lay beside each other in spent exhaustion, the thought of leaving her tomorrow hardens him again like a relentless green boy. Her skin becomes his life’s breath, and he pulls her in over and over, suffocating in her as he empties himself once again. 

This time, he stays inside her, grunting and gasping into her ear, as the morning starts to peer through his window. “Come with me,” he rasps. “Please. Come with me to Dragonstone.”

***

Sansa wakes up wrapped in his arms, her back pressed firmly to his chest, and his hand is resting gently against her stomach. She smiles, feeling so safe and warm. All she wants is to wake up with him next to her, every day, for the rest of their lives. 

As he snores softly, she allows her mind to fantasize about the future. They are at home, in Winterfell, and everyone is safe. A child’s laugh fills the room, then another and another. She has a family with Jon, sons who look like Robb and daughters who play with swords. A pack of little wolves surrounding them in their den.

_Not just wolves, though. Dragons._

The image of her father comes to her again. It was strange to see him so young, and stranger still to see him crying. She thinks about him for a while, how there was so much she never really knew about him. He’d always been a good father, kind and loving, but there was so much he didn’t know about her either, even back then. Sansa wonders what he would think of her now, if he could know the woman she’s become. Would he forgive her for the things she’s had to do, would he understand? _You had your own secrets._ It’s an odd thing to think of her father as just a man, flawed and vulnerable, but somehow it's a comfort too. 

She tries not to think about what Jon will do when he finds out the truth, but it's difficult to avoid. Especially now, while he sleeps next to her. Sansa knows that it will hurt to learn he's not Ned Stark's son, that his father was a Targaryen and his entire life has been a lie. But it also means they can be together, safely and with honor. It means they can have a family and rule the North together. Could that be enough, could it take the place of what he'll lose? She presses her hand against his on her belly and knows the answer. _He loves us._

Just as Sansa's mind begins to drift beyond their lives together as man and wife, just as the faintest memory of standing with her septa in the throne room starts to rise, Jon shifts, moving his hips closer to her and his hand further up her ribs. Sansa smiles and arches back against the press of his arousal against her ass. His snore turns into a groan against her ear and it sends a shiver through her that makes her squeeze her thighs together. He kisses her neck and she knows he’s fully awake now. She starts rocking her body in a rhythm against him and his hand moves to her hip. 

“What are you doing?” he asks roughly, but his hand doesn’t still her. He grips her side as she continues to move, as if to push her away, but instead he begins pulling her back, deepening her thrusts against his aching cock. “Gods, Sansa. You’re going to make me spill.” 

She pushes harder, in a pointed rut up the length of him, and then he feels her pulling up on the hem of her shift. He pushes his small clothes down and returns to his position behind her with skin touching skin. He presses his erection against her warm, soft cheeks, rubbing himself up and down as she stretches back. Jon takes his cock in his hand and lowers it, pushing between the apex of her thighs. She slides along him, wetting him, and his skin feels hot against hers. Then he tilts a little higher, pressing his tip against her clit as she thrusts. Her moans become pleading and finally he pulls back until he is lined up with her entrance and pushes in. 

Sansa lets out a soft cry at the depths he reaches, and he twists the hand cradling her head so that her lips find his. He strokes up the length of her body as he continues to pump slowly inside her from behind, dragging her shift higher as he goes. His fingers close around her nipple as his palm cups her swollen flesh. She hums softly against his lips as he plays with her body, widening his hand to grip both of her breasts at once. 

Lifting her shift higher, their lips part so he can pull it over her head. When he does, the movement pulls her hair away from her back and suddenly her scars are in front of his eyes. His body freezes and he holds his breath for a moment. But she whispers, "Jon," clutching his hand tightly with insistence. “Don’t stop.”


	52. Shaggydog

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon and Sansa finish their business in White Harbor. Arya wargs into Nymeria and sees her brothers.

On their last day in White Harbor, there is much to do. Jon meets with Jaime and Bran to talk about strategies and Sansa attends the women’s court that the Manderlys had finished organizing without her once Podrick had informed them she’d fallen ill.

Wynafryd was not surprised, having witnessed Sansa get sick in the fountain. She'd expressed concern for Lady Stark, hoping it hadn’t been the fish, and then requested that the blushing Podrick extend an invitation to the ladies of the Lazy Eel to attend the women’s court the next morning. 

He must have done well because when Sansa arrives to the Merman’s Court there is already room only to stand. She joins Lady Wynafryd at the dais as Lady Wylla continues to greet and socialize with the gathering women. 

“I’m very sorry I could not be here yesterday,” Sansa begins, but Wyn waves away the sentiment.

“Are you feeling alright, my lady?” Wyn touches Sansa’s hand which pleasantly surprises her. 

“I am, thank you. You’re maester gave me something for sleep and it really helped. I’m like a whole new woman now.” She smiles kindly, then adds, “I’m not used to such extensive travel, and I suppose I worried if I complained then Jon would send me back to the Vale.”

“I understand,” Wyn nods. “You want to go home. Well, the ships should be kinder and quicker. It’s the last leg of your journey. How does it feel?”

Sansa’s belly suddenly flutters and she unconsciously presses her hand to it as she takes a steadying breath. 

“Oh, I hope I didn’t make you nervous. That’s the last thing your poor stomach needs.” 

“My..” she looks down and sees what she’s doing and crosses both hands in her lap.

“Are you feeling ill again? Everyone will understand if you have to leave.”

Sansa remembers now that Wyn had held her hair back. So much seems to have happened since then. She shakes her head and reassures Wynafryd she is fine.

“I think I’m actually nervous and excited. I feel horrible saying that, as I am asking men to fight and die for me, for my home.” She looks down with hesitation.

“Yes, war has a certain necessary thrill in the anticipation of it. But stamina is what matters, and not losing hope.”

Sansa nods, feeling overcome with appreciation for her new friend. "Thank you, Wyn. I can't begin to express how grateful I am for all your kindness. I look forward to the work we will do together rebuilding the North, once the wars are over."

Wynafryd smiles softly at her. "As do I, Sansa. It's been wonderful to get to know you and I'm proud to be able to now call you my friend." 

As Sansa's eyes begin to fill with tears, Wyn turns away and meets her sister’s gaze across the room. She nods instructively to her, and Wylla joins them on the dais as the three ladies stand to begin the meeting.

***

With Meera’s help, Bran explains as much as he can to Jaime and Jon about Daenerys, her dragons, and the Night King. He tells them about the dragonglass under Dragonstone and stresses that they should mine as much as possible, but the priority will be to get the dragons north.

“He’s coming,” Bran says ominously. “I don’t know when, but he will find his way to world of men, and when he does we need to be ready.” 

After Jon and Jaime have asked everything they can think to, Meera removes her touch from Bran’s shoulders and feels his face with the back of her hand. “He needs to rest,” she whispers to herself more than anyone else.

“Thank you, Bran,” Jon says quietly. Then he and Jaime both stand to leave when Bran stops them, taking Meera’s hand in his.

“I’d like to speak to Ser Jaime alone for a moment,” he says. Meera looks at him questioningly and he nods to inform her he means for her to leave as well. She turns to Jon and then Jaime who looks even more concerned than she does. Bran squeezes her hand gently and she looks back to him, then nods and leaves with Jon.

Outside the solar, Jon finds himself walking in silence down the corridor beside Meera. He looks at her, but her mind seems to still be with his brother. Her love for him is so quiet, and yet so fiercely evident. 

“Thank you,” he says abruptly. Meera’s head twitches in his direction slightly as though she wasn’t aware he was still there. “For being there for him. Thank you for loving him.” 

At this they both stop walking and face each other. Meera looks as though she wants to ask him something but then her eyes shift down and she simply says, “It’s much harder on him than you know. He’s afraid of losing himself.” 

“Do you think he is?” Jon asks, fearing her answer. “You said he died.”

Meera sighs and looks to the side, thinking to herself. Then, in what seems a private moment, she smiles softly. “He’s still in there,” she whispers. Her eyes meet Jon’s who still looks unsure, and then she speaks more certainly. “You know what we are facing. Bran is the key to defeating them. He knows that, and he would give his life for it if he needs to. But I will protect him as well as I can, as long as I can.”

Jon feels himself warming with affection for Meera in this moment. He almost embraces her, but then she speaks again and suddenly it's as if she's his commander. 

“This won’t be an easy fight. It will take everything from everyone. Maybe we’ll win, and maybe, after it’s all over, Bran can be himself again. I don’t know. But first we have to win.” Her eyes narrow on Jon and he is speechless. He can only nod, and then stare as she walks away.

***

Arya watches him from the tree she’s perched in. 

 

She’d risen early that morning and decided to wonder into the Wolfswood alone for a while. This was partly to escape Gendry’s snoring. She’d worn him out the night before and knew he’d be in a deep and hammering slumber for many hours to come. But she also wanted to be alone.

It had been a few weeks since she’d warged into Nymeria and she wanted to give it a try. The safest she feels doing this is strapped high in a tree so that nobody can sneak up on her while she’s looking and moving through her wolf. It had taken a few tries to clear her mind and conjure her, it’s always much easier when she is close by, but eventually Arya found her. 

Prowling along the tree line, she waited impatiently for her brother. She’d scattered her pack in a wide parameter and remained alone as she waited. This wasn’t her first reunion with Ghost since leaving Winterfell, but it was the first time since they'd felt it, felt _him_. And as she finally saw him approaching, they both felt again. _He’s coming back._

Ghost looked at her and she stared back at him, both of them feeling him grow stronger and stronger, until the distant splash of water caught her ears first. They raced north through the woods, running until their muscles ached, and then finally emerged by the shore. Then they stared out toward the horizon, waiting, until their long-lost brother came into view. 

After remaining in Nymeria for so long, the shock of seeing Shaggy Dog, massive and swimming toward her, jolted Arya out of the warg. She’d looked around, orienting herself, and realized from the ache in her back and legs that she’d been crouched in the same position for hours. She didn’t care, though. She wanted to go back in and see what was happening, but before she could try again she’d heard something in the woods. She crept silently through branches until she discovered what it was. A stag. 

 

Gendry stretches and pulls his cock out to take a piss. Arya watches, enjoying her covert view with a thrill of mischief. _Gods, he’s gorgeous._ She remembers last night and it makes her wet. She bites her lip and keeps watching, admiring the force of his stream.

But when he’s finished, he doesn’t put it away. His hand remains wrapped around his cock and even soft he can barely close his fist. Arya moves a little closer, quiet as a breath, and Gendry steps back, leaning himself against the trunk of a wide tree. He takes a quick look around, then closes his eyes and begins to stroke himself.

It doesn’t take long for full thickness of his beautiful cock to harden. He moves his grip in a steady, but slow rhythm with his lips parted slightly. Arya is frozen in place. A part of her thinks she shouldn’t be doing this, but it is a very small part. She knows she won’t look away, and before long the heat in her core has her slipping off her glove and reaching down into her breeches. 

Gendry’s tongue glides along his bottom lip and his brows pinch together. She hears his breathing start to quicken, and hers does too. Then she pulses against her own fingers when she hears him moan, “Arya…”

She pulls her lips between her teeth and bites down to stop herself from making a sound. She feels like she’s going to come and it’s getting harder and harder to move silently. Then he says it again.

“Arya… Arya, if you’re enjoying the show so much why don’t you come get a closer look?” 

Her hand freezes and her heart stops. _You little shit._ With fury, she drops from the tree, landing in front of him positioned to pounce. He smirks at her and gives a little wiggle to his cock, which infuriates her even more.

Arya stocks toward him and he raises both hands in surrender above his head. She stares up at him and grabs him by the cock, causing him to jerk a little in fear. 

“Easy,” he begs, but she’s not having it.

“You bastard,” she growls viciously as her face moves closer to his.

“Now, that’s impolite.” He frowns innocently at her. “I’m the victim here, just minding my own business, trying to have a cheeky wank. Not my fault there’s some pervert lurking in the woods.”

She squeezes her hand around his cock a little harder and he grunts in defeat. Then she kisses him, hard, before moving her mouth to his ear. “Didn’t get enough last night, then?”

Gendry groans almost painfully at the memory of it. Even now, her hand stroking gently up and down his shaft, he feels a bit sore from it all. But he just can’t get enough, and apparently neither can she. Before he can come up with some clever retort, Arya is on her knees in front of him and his cock is wrapped in her warm mouth.

"Fuck..." he sighs, looking down to see her big eyes staring back at him. 

She works him quickly, and not gently. By the time he comes he is almost in tears from the painful exertion of yet another spend. Arya smirks at him as she wipes the corner of her mouth and then turns to make her way back to camp.

“Wait, where are you going?” Gendry pants, reaching for her arm. He pulls her back to him and nuzzles into her neck, making her smile. “I’m not done with you yet.” 

She kisses him, lifting herself up on her toes to reach his eager mouth. His tongue teases at her lips and they press themselves in a tight embrace. They are slower than they’d been last night. Maybe it's the exhaustion, but Arya enjoys lingering with him. She concentrates on the details of his lips and teeth and tongue. She studies his breathing and matches it. His strong arms wrapped around her and she memorizes the pressure of every finger pressed to her back. Her hands hold his neck, pushing up and down the back of his head, his ears, his jaw. The scruff of his beard scratches her cheeks and she embellishes her movements to cover more of herself with him. 

Then Gendry slides a hand to her waist, lifting the bottom of her jerkin and tunic until his fingers find her bare flesh. 

“Rat CUNT!” she screams suddenly, jumping out of his grasp. Gendry gapes at her, eyes wide with shock.

“Excuse me?”

“Sorry,” she explains, tucking her clothes back in place. “Your hands are like ice. Come on, let’s go back to camp.”

Gendry laughs and then follows her, still cussing at him, back to their tent. 

***

After the women’s court, Sansa goes to the royal guest quarters to see Robin. He is sitting in the private courtyard and Podrick is helping him build towers in the snow. As she approaches, Sansa remembers the castle she’d once built out of snow. It was her home, Winterfell. The great keep and the godswood. The broken tower. She remembers striking Robin when he kicked it apart, too. He was just a child, and so was she. Still, the pain of losing her home was so deep that she lost control of herself. 

It is different now. She’s going home. They are going to take it back and all she feels now is ready. 

“Hello Robin,” Sansa says as she approaches the builders. 

“Sansa!” Robin leaps to his feet and runs to her, wrapping his boney arms around her so desperately that she finds herself soothing her hands up and down his back. “You never came back yesterday.”

“I’m sorry, my love. I felt sick and needed to rest.” He looks up at her and she offers an apologetic frown, brushing hair back from his face. “Are you building the Eyrie?” 

“Yes! Come see!” Robin takes her hand and pulls her over to his sculpture. Sansa greets Podrick with a kind nod and Robin points to his progress proudly as he sits again to continue. “This great hall, and the sky cells. Podrick is making the sept so you can make the waycastles, there.” He points to an empty space near where he is working.

Sansa kneels beside him in the snow and starts to gather a pile. “I’m going to miss you when I leave. But we will see each other again very soon.”

“I know,” Robin says confidently. “That’s what Podrick said. I’m going to miss you, too. But he’s going to stay here and keep me company.”

“Is he?” Sansa looks at Podrick, surprised.

“If it please, m’lady. I’ve already spoken to Lady Brienne about it, but I… well, you were at court.” Podrick watches her as she considers him. He sees her lift her eyebrows as if to silently ask if this is what he really wants and Podrick smiles kindly.

“That sounds nice,” she approves. Unexpected tears start to blur the corners of her eyes and Robin takes her hand. 

“Don’t worry,” he tells her gallantly. “Podrick says the Knights of the Vale are going to crush the Bolton army like a bug. Isn’t that right?” He looks back at Pod who nods agreement. 

Sansa squeezes his hand. “You are so brave, my love. The Vale has never had a more chivalrous lord.” 

Robin looks down, and suddenly looks embarrassed. “No, I’m not brave. The Knights are. I’m just afraid.”

“You know, my father used to say that’s the only time a man truly can be brave, when he’s afraid.”

“Really?” Robin looks back at her with renewed hope and Sansa nods lovingly.

She goes back to building her castle of snow, and feels a warmth fill her. She can’t explain it, but she feels as though everything will be alright. Robin will return home after the war and she will speak with Lord Royce about arranging a more suitable bride for him. 

She will appoint Royce as Lord Protector once she hears word of Littlefinger’s death and Jon is revealed as the rightful heir. But these are all matters for after the wars to come.

***

Jon returns to the godswood one last time before leaving White Harbor. He is alone and everything is quiet. The snow is falling in light flurries that come to rest in his dark hair as he kneels before the weirwood tree.

Bowing his head, he prays silently for his family. He prays for Arya, that she is safe and on her way back to him. He prays for Bran, that he can find peace and hold on to himself despite all he’s become. He prays for Rickon, that he has found a wild existence for himself, safe and far away from the hell the rest of them face. He prays for his father, that his soul may be at rest once he’s driven the rats from his home. He prays for their mother, Catelyn, that she might forgive him and find a place for him in her heart. He prays for his own mother, wherever she is, in heaven or earth, may she know that he thinks of her and hopes that she thinks of him too. 

Finally, lifting his hands to the face on the tree, he prays for Sansa. That she might know how loved she is, and that their child will grow to know the same. "Protect them," he whispers. "Please. Whatever happens to me, just keep them safe."

***

Gendry rests beside her, his chest pressed to her back, gripping her small breasts in his large hands as he begins to soften within her. He kisses her shoulder, keeping her wrapped in his tight embrace. Arya nestles her head against his arm beneath her and closes her eyes, comfortable and warm. Their legs are twisted together and the sweat on their skin glistens in the firelight. 

“Were you warging?” Gendry asks quietly, his lips brushing her lightly as he glides his mouth toward her neck.

She nods and takes a deeper breath as the memory of it comes back. 

“What did you see?”

“My brother,” she recalls. Gendry lifts his head to look at her and she opens her eyes. “I mean, Nymeria’s brother. Ghost. He’s Jon’s wolf.” 

Arya rolls over to face him and Gendry props himself up on his elbow to listen. 

“Where were you?”

“I’m not sure. North of here though, the snows were deeper. I was in the woods, and there was a river. The White Knife, I think. Ghost came, like they were planning to meet or something. And then we ran, chasing a sound and a scent. We were running through the woods for ages, until we came out on the other side. There was water there too, but not a river, an ocean. The Bay of Seals, I think. Something was coming, something in the water, coming across the bay.” Arya’s eyes gloss over and she looks toward a distant spot on the canvas beside them. She is trying to remember it from the wolf’s eyes.

“What was it?” Gendry puts his hand on her hip and nudges her, bringing her eyes back to him.

“It was Shaggy Dog. Rickon’s wolf.” 

Just then, the distant snap of branches catches their attention. Crashing sounds pull them from their bed and they race to get dressed, then arm themselves and rush out of the tent.


	53. The Approach

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa consider what it will be like to see each other again.

Jon wakes up from his dream with a start, but her soft skin wrapped in his arms comforts him instantly. He holds her close for a moment, letting her steady breath slow the pace of his beating heart. 

It was another dream of the crypts, only this time he was alone. His father wasn’t there. Jon tried to call out for him, but his voice caught in his throat. The woman he’d seen before wasn’t there either. As he looked around, searching, he saw that even the statues were gone. He ran down one corridor but everything was dark, and the only sound was his own panting breath. Then he’d felt it. A quaking deep in the earth, and deep in himself. Something was stirring, and it was terrible. 

Jon presses his face against Sansa’s hair and tries to rid himself of the images, but the blue mist he’d seen just before waking still haunts him. Sansa stirs in his arms and it makes him aware of just how tightly he’s holding her. The seas have been hard enough on her nausea and so, now that she is finally resting, Jon doesn’t want to wake her. 

He gently slips his arm out from beneath her and tucks the furs snuggly around her in his place. Then he rises from their bed and pulls his cloak on before heading above deck. The night is cold and black, but the sound of the White Knife rushing around the ship gives him something to focus on that isn’t his dream. 

The waters will turn too rough soon, and then they will need to finish the journey by land. They need to get as close to Castle Cerwyn as they can before that, but even if they must dock tomorrow, it should only be another day or two until they reach the armies. Jon thinks about Arya. Will she be there when they arrive? He wishes he could ask Bran, but he’d already asked after her one last time as they said goodbye to him in White Harbor. 

The last he knew, she was getting close. Bran told him she was traveling through the Wolfswood with Gendry as the Ironborn made their way north via the King’s Road. He didn’t like that she’d separated from the rest of the soldiers, but Bran reminded him that she is safest traveling in the shadows. 

He sighs, trying not to worry. It had only been a few days. How much trouble could she get into in that short of time? 

Snow begins to fall and he remains on the deck of the ship for a while longer, letting the cold flakes wash over him. He closes his eyes and takes a long, deep breath of winter air, then feels a gentle hand press to his back. 

“Another dream?” she asks softly. He turns and smiles reassurance, hoping to sooth the concern pinching her brow. She is wearing her cloak but he wraps his around her, too, pulling her into his arms.

“You shouldn’t be out here, Sansa. It’s too cold.” 

She lays her head against his and kisses his face. “We’re of the North, Jon. The cold is in our blood.”

He rubs her arm and laughs a little, pressing his lips to her hair. “Did I wake you?”

“No,” she whispers. “It was a dream for me as well.” 

Jon turns to her and she looks at him, seeing the fear in his eyes. “It wasn’t anything frightening,” she promises quickly. He relaxes a little and then they lay their cheeks against each other’s again and peer out into the night. After a few silent moments, she tells him what she dreamed. She describes sitting by the fire in the Lord’s Chamber at Winterfell. She was singing as her fingers twisted fine, auburn curls into a braid down the back of a little girl. 

Jon moves his hand to her stomach. “It’s a girl?” he asks shyly. Sansa smiles at his timid excitement.

“I don’t know. I could hear other children laughing a playing throughout the castle. And my belly was big with another. I’m not sure if she was this one.” Sansa puts her hand over his and his arms tighten around her.

“Sansa,” he whispers in worship before dipping his lips to her neck.

She giggles, tickled by his beard, and says, “It could have just been a dream, Jon. It’s hard to know when I’m sleeping whether what I saw was a vision. But I could smell her. I could feel the warmth from the fire. It seemed so real.”

“We’ll make it real,” he promises. “We’ll fill the castle with children, Sansa.”

“Oh, will we?” she laughs. “You’d have your poor lady heavy with child for years to come.”

“Aye, if she’ll let me. I’d put another in you now, if I could.” Jon sucks the skin of her neck, then closes his teeth around her, nipping softly.

“Mmmm, well I suppose it never hurts to practice.” She feels him press his hips forward, hardening against her skirts.

“Should I take you out here, my lady? In the cold, with the sailors listening?” Jon slides his hand up her body and closes it around her breast, growling slightly as she winces. Her teats are so sensitive now, and it makes his cock pulse knowing her body is responding to his seed growing inside her. 

Sansa rocks her hips back against him and feels the heat build between her thighs. She loves when the wolf in him comes out, dark, dangerous, and wild. “Your depravity is shocking, Jon Snow.” 

“And yet,” he snarls into her ear, “it gets you so wet for me.” 

She moans softly and his hand travels back down, pressing lower until he can feel her legs part slightly beneath her dress. 

“Tell me, Sansa” he demands, pushing against her mound, rubbing his hand in a circle as he continues to rut behind her. “Is your cunt getting wet for your wolf?” 

“Yes,” she sighs. Her hand slides behind her, gripping his cock through his breeches. “Yes, Jon. I can feel it between my thighs.”

“What do you need, sweet girl?”

“Jon,” she begs.

“Say it,” he hisses sharply, thrusting harder against her. “I want to hear those filthy words come out of your pretty mouth.” 

“Your cock,” she whines finally. “I need your cock. I need to feel it.”

“Where?”

“M… my cunt. I need you inside of me, filling me, fucking me until I come all over your hard, pulsing–” 

“Gods, Sansa,” he moans. Then his body leaves her, all but his hand which grabs her wrist in a silent command to follow him as he pulls her back to their cabin.

***

Arya and Gendry fortunately caused almost no damage to the Wildlings that had come upon their camp, thanks to Tormund being at the head of the mob and him recognizing Jon Snow’s sister. Three of the younger men had been caught in their traps though, and are still donning the bruises around their ankles from the impact of falling through the spiked trenches. 

All is forgiven, though, and tonight as they sit around a fire eating deer, Tormund praises her skill again. 

“You’d do well with the Freefolk,” he laughs, dripping grease from his mouth onto his heavy ginger beard. “Just like your brother.”

“But wasn’t he your prisoner?” Gendry asks cautiously. Unlike Arya, he was still unsure what to think of these rough characters they’d been ambushed by only a few days ago. But she had informed him they were all on the same side, so that was enough for Gendry to trust them, mostly.

“Aye, he was. And then I was his prisoner. It’s a complicated relationship.” Tormund laughs again, this time so hardily that pieces of meat fly from his mouth.

“We’re getting close,” Arya interrupts. “We should be coming to the edge of the forest sometime tomorrow. Then we should wait until nightfall to find the road. Theon and Yara will be making camp near the river. They shouldn’t be too hard to find.”

“What makes you so sure Jon won’t kill that boy?” Tormund asks with a smirk. “He betrayed your family, and Jon hasn’t gotten any sweeter since he died.” 

Arya takes a breath and shrugs, trying to ignore the knot twisting in her gut. “He helped Sansa. That will be enough for Jon.”

Tormund watches her closely, but she keeps her eyes on the fire. She feels Gendry open his mouth to speak, but before he can she stands and makes her way back to their tents without a word. He watches her, his instinct that something was wrong proven correct. 

Then he looks back at Tormund who has returned his attention to the thigh bone he’s sucking dry. The bear of a man hardly acknowledges the stare, and simply growls, “That’s your cue, boy.”

Gendry stands, nervously, and then follows the same path Arya took toward the tents. When he enters, she is sitting on their cot cleaning her sword. 

“You alright?” he asks gently, sitting on the ground beside her. She nods and he moves his hands to her boots, unlacing them and pulling them off. Then he starts rubbing her feet, his strong fingers kneading away the ache of travel. “Is it your sister? Are you afraid of what–”

“I’m not afraid,” she hisses, pulling her feet angrily away from him. She pulls herself up straighter on the cot, folding her legs beneath her as she continues to polish her sword, more forcefully now. 

Gendry snorts at her. “Right, stupid of me.” She glares at him but she can only hold her scowl against his satisfied smirk for so long before she cracks a hint of her own smile. Arya rolls her eyes at him, but her face softens. 

“I haven’t seen her in years,” she says quietly. “She won’t even recognize me.”

“Your brother did.”

“Jon’s different.” 

The bite in her tone catches Gendry’s attention. She used to talk about her brother all the time. She practically worshipped him. But she’s hardly spoken of him at all since she found Gendry again, other than telling him of the war plans. 

She’d told him a little of what she knew of her sister’s experience, too. That she’d been married to the Bolton bastard, and kept prisoner until she escaped and found Jon at the wall, shortly after he’d come back from the dead. Most of that was on their first night together, though. Now that he thought about it, she seemed to avoid all discussion of both of them ever since.

“Sansa and I,” she continues slowly, “we never got on as children. We were so different.” 

“She’s your family,” he offers as he places his hand on her knee. Arya sighs and puts down her blade, allowing his comfort at last. Her hand rests on top of his and Gendry sees her lips twist in the way they do when she is biting the inside of her cheek. He squeezes her knee, bringing her eyes to him. “You can tell me, you know. Whatever it is that’s worrying you.” 

Arya considers his words for a moment, wishing he were right. But this, the suspicion she’d felt when she was with Jon, it was something she could hardly admit to herself. Besides, what if she was wrong? What would Gendry think of her for letting her mind conjure up something so… 

“I should have kept looking for her,” she confesses. It isn’t a lie. But it isn’t the truth he’s looking for either. “Maybe, if I hadn’t gone to Braavos, if I’d gone back to the Vale or to Winterfell–”

“Then you would have been a prisoner again, too.” Gendry stands now and moves next to her on the cot. His arm wraps around her and he pulls her against his chest. “You have to stop believing that you are responsible for every terrible thing that has happened to your family.”

“I don’t,” she begins, but her voice catches in her throat, revealing the truth. 

“You do. I know you do. Your father, your mother, your brother. None of it was your fault, and you couldn’t have stopped any of it. You know they wouldn’t have wanted you to be there, dying alongside them. They would be proud that you survived, that you escaped and found your own path. And your sister will feel the same way.” 

Arya wipes her nose and releases a skeptical breath. Then Gendry leans back, putting his hand on her neck to tilt her face up to him. 

“Listen to me. You couldn’t have helped them then. But you can now. You became the person you were meant to be, a warrior, and a terrifying one at that.” She laughs a little and he smiles. “You’re going to take your home back, you and your sister and your brother. Whatever happened in the past doesn’t matter anymore. You’re family. You’re the Starks of Winterfell.” 

Gendry kisses her on the forehead and she wraps her arms around his waist, feeling his heart beat steady her as it always does. 

“Thank you,” she says quietly.

“Don’t thank me, thank my cock.” He tickles her and she swats at him. “What? I need as much time inside of you as I can get. Don’t think I’m going to so much as look at you too familiar once we’re around the Lady of Winterhell.” 

“Winter _fell_ ,” she corrects, shoving him off of her and aiming to punch. Gendry catches her by the assaulting fist and pulls her lips to his. Arya melts against him, feeling her worries burn away as the heat in her body rises.

***

Jon helps Sansa dismount from her horse when they stop to rest. She would scold him for being too protective, if it didn’t warm her heart so sweetly. They are just over a day’s ride from Castle Cerwyn and they are both feeling their nerves rise with every mile they progress. They speak less and less, both so in their own heads that it leaves little room for spoken conversation. But their bodies stay closely connected whenever possible. 

As soon as Jon finishes securing the horses he returns to her, sitting beside her with his knee touching hers while he pulls food from his rucksack. The snows are deepening and it creates a quiet around them that brings a familiar comfort. 

Sansa leans her head against Jon’s shoulder when she is finished eating and he wraps a gentle arm around her. She watches a rabbit scamper through the trees and smiles, allowing herself to feel the peace of this moment without thinking of the wars to come. She knows she will need all the strength she’s capable of in the very near future, but for now she lets herself be soft.

“What are you thinking about?” His voice pulls her from her trance and she sits up, pulling her cloak around her more.

“Arya,” she sighs.

Jon doesn’t ask her to elaborate, and the long silence that follows has him believing that she won’t. But then he looks at her a sees a tear falling down her face. He touches it and she smiles a little. 

“I miss her,” she whispers. “I’ve missed her for so long, but now… I don’t know. It’s like I’m _afraid_ to see her again.” She looks at him then and sees he doesn’t understand. 

Jon pulls her hand into his and kisses her fingers gently. “I promise, Sansa. We will be home soon, all of us. We’ll be a family again.”

She squeezes his hand, nodding toward the grasp. “And what about this? How are we going to explain this to her?”

He tries to give her a reassuring look but it fails to comfort her. “I don’t know, my love. But we will figure it out, together.”

“She’s going to hate me, more than she already does.”

“Arya doesn’t hate you.” His voice is so sure that she almost believes him. But Sansa knows that Jon’s relationship with their sister was always different than the one she had with her. How could he really know what Arya will think of her, of them. 

Sansa stands, letting go of his hand, and Jon feels the chill of the separation. He watches her as she begins to pace, worrying her hands together as she does when she is nervous. 

“The last time I saw her I was begging father to let us stay in King’s Landing, so I could marry the monster who killed him.” 

Jon feels the pain in her words cut through him, matching his own. “That last time she saw you was when you were screaming at that monster, begging him not to do it.” 

Sansa turns to him, shocked. “She was there?”

He nods. “In the crowd. Yoren from the Night’s Watch found her and helped her escape.”

Sansa closes her eyes and lowers her head. Jon moves to her then, and she weeps in his arms. “She was alone, all these years. I should have protected her, I–” 

“Shh,” he soothes. “Sansa’s it’s not your fault. It’s not her fault either, although she believes it was.” 

She looks at him again, astonished. “What?”

“She told me she wanted to save him, to save you both. She blames herself because she couldn’t.”

Sansa scoffs. “That's ridiculous, she was just a child.”

“So were you.” 

Jon touches her face softly and then his lips press to hers in a silent kiss that lingers until he feels her body relax against his. Then he pulls her into a tight embrace, gently stroking her hair. 

In the trees, just beyond where they stand, a wolf silently stalks away.

***

She wakes in the night, with Jon snoring peacefully in her ear. Sansa hadn’t wanted to camp. They were so close and if they’d have ridden through the night they would have made it to Castle Cerwyn. But once night fell, Jon had insisted. Her arguments were cut short when he reminded her of the maester’s instructions back in White Harbor. Food and sleep had been a constant demand from Jon ever since.

Sansa strokes his hand softly as it rests against her belly. His protection makes her smile, and she closes her eyes again to try and return to her sweet dreams, but then she feels it. Her eye pop open. She pulls herself from the bed and runs out of the tent, with only enough time to grab her cloak before she is bent over, vomiting in the snow. 

When she’s finished, she lifts her bare hand from the cold ground and places it against her hot cheek. The nausea passes eventually and she turns to move back into the tent. But just as she is about to enter she sees something in the dark. Eyes. Large glowing orbs, the same she had seen that night on the Trident. _Nymeria?_

As if in a trance, Sansa moves toward them, captured by their glare. The great body of the wolf comes into view and it takes her breath away. She stops, only for a moment to steady herself at the sight, and then she continues her approach. Reaching out a hand, the massive beast lowers her head and Sansa touches her. 

Tears fall as she thinks of Lady, and Sansa finds herself pressing her face against the thick fur of her neck. Then Nymeria lays down, flattening her body against the earth as low as she can. Sansa looks at her, and as if answering her unspoken question, Nymeria nudges her toward her back. Without thinking, Sansa climbs upon the direwolf and grips her fur tightly as she rises to her feet again. And then they are off.


	54. Sun and Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Arya and Sansa reunite. Jon runs into Gendry in the woods.

The feel of the crisp air whipping past her face as Nymeria sprints through the trees, faster than any horse she’d ever ridden, gives Sansa an enchanted thrill. Her legs and hands grip the wide body beneath her, but the grace with which she moves cradles hers in a balance that threatens no fall. 

Sansa lets out a bright, tinkling laugh that echoes through the forest around her. 

Finally, her sister's wolf comes to a stop and Sansa leans forward, embracing her around the neck again. The pulse of Nymeria’s powerful heart thrums into Sansa and fills her with a warmth that melts the tears frozen by the wind on her cheeks. 

When the massive, panting beast lowers herself to the ground again, Sansa slides off into the snow. She looks around her, not recognizing where she is, and then looks back into Nymeria’s eyes. Sansa watches her for a moment as the wolf stares back, unblinking. 

“Are you in there?” she whispers to her sister. “Can you see me?”

The thought of Arya looking at her now, through these great wide eyes, causes her to tremble. She takes a step closer and reaches out her hand. 

“Where are you?”

“I’m here.”

Sansa spins around to see her step out from behind a tree and the sight is overwhelming. Her breath leaves her and tears come again in an instant. Arya steps closer, and then Sansa’s face twists into an ugly, unrestrained sob of disbelief as she pulls her baby sister against her chest in a smothering clutch. 

They quake together in a mess of cries, gripped in the arms of each other so tightly it hurts, though neither will relent. No words are spoken and even if they’d tried it would only come out as incoherent, half-formed babble.

The moment lasts forever, it seems, as no end to the embrace is desired by either of them. It is as if they are trying to become one, casting their protections around each other through the connection of their bodies and shared tears. It is only when a loud crack in the distance draws their attention that they break apart at last. 

***

Gendry finishes biting through his last fingernail left to him and then swings his bouncing legs off of the bed. She’d said she would be right back. He knows she can handle herself. She’s probably just warging and Arya had said she can lose track of time when she does that. 

Still, something isn’t right. It’s been too long. 

He wraps his brute grip around the shaft of his hammer and heaves it over his shoulder as he heads out into the woods. There is no sound, and if she’d left any tracks they’re covered over by now. He wanders further into the thickness of the trees and the forest darkens in the shaded night.

After he’d gone about a mile he stops and looks around again, listening. Silence. Then it occurs to him to look up. His head stretches back as he tries to make his eyes adjust in the darkness, looking for any signs of a thin blade glimmering in the black. But suddenly, there is a sword at his throat. 

“What are you doing here?” a voice growls in his ear, and Gendry answers without hesitation by throwing himself and his attacker backward and into a tree. The sword slips lower and Gendry grips that man’s arm, throwing himself forward again as he flips the assailant over his shoulder into a rolling tumble of fur. 

He watches as the man gracefully spin himself back to his feet, sword in his hand and murder in his eyes. Even in the dark, Gendry can see it is Valyrian steel. He lifts his own weapon and readies himself for another attack that comes immediately. 

He meets the sword with the head of his hammer, throwing it and the man a few paces, but then he is back. He meets the blows again, twice, three times, but the skill of this sword fighter is clear and Gendry knows his only hope is to strike the sword out of his hand. 

“Where is she?” the stranger demands.

Another swing, and Gendry ducks as it hacks into a tree behind him. The blade sticks in the trunk, for just a moment, and Gendry takes the opportunity to strike, swinging the hammer around toward the man’s head. He misses by a breath, as the sword comes loose and the man falls back at the same moment. The hammer lands against the tree with a deafening crack that echoes throughout the forest, shaking the sturdy wide oak. 

The men round on each other, readying their weapons, circling in concentrated preparation for the duel. Then they hear a thundering above them that draws both of their eyes upward just in times to see an avalanche of snow falling loose from the high branches disappearing up into the sky. 

They try to run but the heavy snow buries them both in an instant, beating them against the ground in an assault that piles high over their backs before silence and stillness surround them again. Gendry felt his hammer slip from his grip in the fall and he presses his hands to the ground, spreading them out in a desperate search before pushing himself up to his feet. 

He breaks through the surface of the snow, now thigh deep in a perimeter around the tree, and he needs to decide quickly whether to get himself out of the pile and run or wade through the heaviness to search for his weapon. When the other man pops up without his sword in hand, he decides to risk the depths and begins looking around, bending over and pushing snow aside with his hands and feet as fast as he can. 

The other man starts moving toward him and he searches faster, but then he is too close and all Gendry can do is stand and swing his fist. 

He makes contact with the man’s gut, throwing him into a crouch before he is back again, raging as he ducks the second punch and butts Gendry in the head. “Where is she!” he screams again.

The blow dizzies him and he shakes his head for a moment before dodging another swing. 

“Who?” he tries, grabbing the man by the arm and throwing him back to the ground. 

He takes the opportunity to look around for his hammer again. He sees the tip of a spike poking out from the edge of where the fight had shifted the snow and Gendry starts reaching for it when another blow, this time from a fist, connects with his eye. Hands are pulling him up and then he is run back against the tree with such force that Gendry fears another pile might fall down on them. 

“Where is my sister,” the man snarls into his face, spit flying from his menacing jaws. 

Gendry’s eyes widen as he takes in the man’s familiar eyes. Then he lowers his glance to see the direwolves etched into the straps of his cloak and gasps.

“You’re Jon,” he chokes out against the fingers now closing on around his neck.

This causes the man to tighten his grip and a frightening growl rumbles up from his throat in a warning to answer his question. 

“I don’t know. I was looking for her. She left and–”

Jon slams him back again. “Why did you take her? What do you want?” 

“I… I didn’t! She took me! I mean…” 

Gendry finds himself no longer able to breathe, his head ringing from the blows. 

“I’m sorry. I… I love her,” he croaks out against the hand only seconds away from crushing his windpipe. 

“You _what_?” Jon pulls his dagger and holds the sharp blade against the bulging vein in the man’s neck.

“Jon!” he hears her scream and turns to see Sansa running toward him. “Stop!” 

“Sansa! What are you - Arya??”

They both run toward him, Sansa stopping at the edge of the piled-up snow while Arya pushes through with a force of strength that seems impossible for her tiny body. When she reaches them, she shoves Jon back, placing herself between him and Gendry with a look of warning on her face that is so frightening she’s almost unrecognizable. 

“What are you,” he pants, confused, and then turns back to Sansa who tries to steady him with her pleading eyes. “Where did you,” he looks back at the two in front of him again. “What the _fuck_ is going on?”

Arya glances at her frightened lover before turning back to her tortured brother and smirks. “Jon, this is Gendry.” 

***

Nymeria sleeps beside the fire as the three fighters warm their soaked legs and Sansa bundles packed snow into a piece of her shift she’d cut off with Jon’s dagger. She wraps it up, tying the ends closed, and then hands it to Gendry with a soft smile before taking a seat beside her sister.

Jon watches him press the cold compress to his swelling eye with an apologetic gaze before turning his attention back to his sisters. Sansa is staring at Arya with the same fascination he’d held the day she found him in the woods. 

“You’re so beautiful,” she whispers as she tucks a strand of her sister’s hair behind her ear. 

Arya looks down, uncomfortably, and Jon notices a blush come to her cheeks. Then he sees the hint of a smile. He glances back at Gendry who still looks as though he fears another attack, even though Jon had explained the confusion. 

“Where are you camped?” he asks awkwardly, hoping to start a friendly conversation.

“Not far from here,” Gendry responds. “We’re with a group of wildlings.”

Jon turns back to Arya who clarifies, “Tormund found us. He brought a group of two thousand fighters down from the Gift.”

“What about Theon?” Sansa asks next, and Arya looks at her with surprise.

“How did you know we were with him?” 

“Bran told us,” she begins. “He has… visions now.”

“Bran’s alive?!” 

Sansa smiles and nods, tears filling her eyes again. “It’s a long story, but he’s at White Harbor now, waiting until the North is secured, along with Robin Arryn.”

This makes her pause for a moment as pieces of information begin to connect. “Jon said you were in the Eryie, that he’d made you stay there until after the battle to keep you safe.” 

Sansa gives Jon a wary glance and Arya studies it before joining her in looking at their brother. 

“The Lannister army tried to come for her there, but Jaime Lannister warned them and they were able to escape,” Jon explains. He ignores her lifted eyebrow at the mention of the kingslayer and continues. “We joined back up at Greywater Watch just before we took Moat Cailin. That’s where Bran found us, too. He’d been traveling with Howland Reed’s daughter, Meera.”

Arya closes her eyes for a moment and takes a breath. Her senses were overwhelmed and she decides to pace herself in her quest for information. For now, she just allows herself to be happy they are all together. The rest can wait. 

“Theon and the Ironborn should be camped somewhere near the King’s Road. I ordered them to wait for us there.”

“How many men?” Jon asks, not wishing to discuss Theon tonight beyond military tactics. 

“Three hundred. And fifty men from Torrhen's Square.” She'll explain the details of that alliance another time.

“Wow,” he acknowledges. “When you said you were going to find your friend, I didn’t expect you to come back with an army.” 

Arya smirks, but then looks back at her staring sister. The two continue to gaze at each other in silent awe and Jon smiles, feeling tears come to his eyes too. Then he stands and slaps an intentionally rough hand down on Gendry’s shoulder.

“Come on, I’ll help you look for your hammer and I need to find my sword.” 

Gendry looks up at him and then back to the girls, realizing he’s trying to give them time to speak alone, and follows him back into the woods.

When they are gone, Arya wipes another tear and looks away from her sister at last. 

“You’re so grown up,” Sansa says with astonishment.

“So are you.”

“Jon said you’d been through a lot since King’s Landing.” Sansa takes her hand and it surprises Arya enough to pulls her eyes back. The pain her older sister holds for her pierces her gut, and then Sansa’s voice finishes her completely. “I’m so sorry, Arya. I’m sorry for everything, all you’ve suffered, that I couldn’t protect you.” 

The words flood from her desperately and Arya squeezes her hand, staring at her in shock. “ _Protect_ me? Sansa, no offense but I hardly blame you for not defeating the Lannisters in single combat.” Then she smirks and Sansa laughs.

“You know what I mean.” She wipes away her tears, sniffing. “I just wish I had been there for you.” 

“I know.” They are wordless then for a moment, neither sure how to express all they are feeling. Then Arya lifts her eyebrow and says, “They say you killed Joffrey, though. Did you?”

Sansa smiles again. “I wish I had.”

“Me too.” Arya looks back into the fire and Sansa watches her face turn darker. “I was angry when I heard someone else had done it. However long my list got, he was always first.”

“Your list?”

“Of people I’m going to kill.” She continues to stare at the flames and waits for Sansa to laugh, believing it was a joke, or gasp, believing it was an offensive joke. But she does neither. Finally, she turns to look back at her sister’s face and sees it darkening now too. 

“Who else is on your list?” 

The thrill in her question is not lost on Arya and she answers coldly, “Most of them are dead already.”

It is the final test, but Sansa only gives a hint of a proud smile before turning back toward the flames. They sit quietly for a while, both allowing the new found mutual understanding of each other settle in. Finally, Arya pulls out her sword and starts to sharpen it. 

“Jon told me you’re pretty good with that now. More than just pretty good, actually.”

“What else did Jon tell you?” 

Sansa thinks she detects a bitterness in the question, but she isn’t sure. “That you’d been in Braavos. That you had done some training there… and that now you’re…”

“A killer?”

“A Faceless Man.” 

Her eyes remain on her blade as she smooths the whetstone down its length. “And you know what that is?” 

“Sort of.” Sansa waits to see if Arya says more, but when she doesn’t she asks, “What happened to you there?”

“They trained me.”

“That’s not what I mean.” Arya looks at her then, blinking. “You must have come back for a reason. Jon said you didn’t know we were alive until you were on the boat back to Westeros. So, what happened? Why did you leave Braavos?” 

The fire crackles and Arya closes her eyes again. “I’d killed a man on my list instead of the Braavosi man they’d ordered me to assassinate. I thought they were going to kill me for it, but instead they blinded me and put me on the street as a beggar.”

“They blinded you? How?” 

“It was part of their magic. I’m not sure I could explain it. But after a few weeks, they came back for me. Trained me blind, to fight, identify poisons, to listen… to lie.” Arya rubs the back of her neck and Sansa feels herself wanting to reach for her. But then her sister turns her attention back to her sword and it seems like a signal that she doesn’t want that. 

“Eventually they gave me my eyes back, and another assignment. They told me it was a second chance, and that I wouldn’t get third. But I couldn’t do it. The woman they wanted me to kill hadn’t done anything wrong. She was an actress, a good one, and a younger actress in her troupe had hired the Faceless Men to kill her because she was jealous.” 

“Oh, Arya.” 

“They came after me,” she continues without letting herself acknowledge the horror in her sister’s voice. “They stabbed me in the gut, but I got away. The actress, the one I was supposed to kill, she saved me. She patched me up and fed me, gave me milk of the poppy and let me sleep in her bed. When I woke up, she was dead.”

“They killed her?”

Arya nods. “There was a fight and I won. Then I left.” 

She lays down her sword and wraps her arms around herself, leaning on her knees as she continues to stare into the fire. Sansa doesn’t say anything else about it, only takes a deep breath before turning back to the fire as well.

“Jon told me you had to fight a lot, too.”

“I wouldn’t say that. More like survive. I’ve spent my years as a prisoner, not a warrior.” Sansa's voice is almost as bitter as Arya’s now. “First the Lannisters, then Littlefinger and Aunt Lysa, and then the Boltons.” 

Arya looks at her again and sees a vicious hatred in her face she never thought Sansa would be capable of. “I’m sorry for all that’s happened to you. I never would have survived what you survived.”

“You would have,” Sansa says to the flames before turning to meet her sister’s eyes. “You’re the strongest person I know.”

A slight smirk crosses Arya’s lips as her eyebrow lifts. “I believe that’s the nicest thing you’ve ever said to me.” 

Sansa rolls her eyes and smiles before turning back to the fire, but Arya’s gaze lingers on her a little longer.

“I’m going to make him suffer, Sansa. I promise you that.” 

“He’s a dangerous person.”

“So am I.”

Her eyes lift to her little sister again and she sees the wolf in her. “Will you let me watch?”

They smile at each other again and Sansa pulls her into another tight embrace.

***

Jon pushes the snow aside with his boot, digging near where he’d fallen. Gendry is doing the same. They search in an awkward silence for a while until Jon finally decides to broach the inevitable. 

“So, you and my sister,” he begins, allowing the reddening of the other man’s face amuse him. “You said you love her?”

Gendry looks him in the eye and takes a deep breath, gathering his courage, and nods. “I do.” 

“Does she know that?”

“I think so.” He takes a step forward and his foot lands on something hard. Gendry leans down and finds the handle of his hammer with his fingers, lifting the weapon from the snow with relief.

Jon smiles at the reunion for a moment before forcing his face to turn stern again. “Does she love you?” 

Gendry sighs, and a smile widens through to his cheeks. If Jon didn’t know any better, he’d think the expression was revealing this man’s undying devotion to his weapon. But then he settles the matter, saying, “She says so. I probably shouldn’t be stupid enough to believe it, but I am. I do.”

He looks back at Jon with a shrug, as if to communicate he’s ready to take whatever punishment his bastard love for the highborn lady will bring. But Jon just grins at him and nods. 

“That’s quite a hammer. Did you make it yourself?” Gendry pinches his brow in confusion and Jon shrugs. “She told me you were a smith.”

“She told you about me?” 

Jon laughs a little, and Gendry is shaken out of his caution and laughs, too. Then he brings his hammer over to Jon for inspection. He takes it, his arms dropping suddenly with the surprising weight of the weapon, and Gendry can’t help feeling proud. 

“Impressive craftsmanship.” Jon runs his fingers along the antlers for a moment before something seems to click and he stills. Then he turns back to Gendry with a questioning look.

“I’m Robert Baratheon’s son, bastard son.” 

Jon’s eyes widen with shock for a moment, but Gendry simply waits for his response. Jon hands him back his hammer and then he smiles again.

“I saw your father once, at Winterfell.”

“I met yours, in my shop.”

Jon returns to looking for his sword and now Gendry helps him. After a few minutes of both men sifting through the snow, Jon offers, “I grew up on stories about them.”

“All I ever knew was that they fought together.” Gendry lifts the sword from the snow and holds it out to Jon before adding, “And won.”

He takes the sword, returning it to its scabbard and then holds out his hand to Gendry. Still a bit wary, Gendry takes it and they share a firm shake. Despite the peace it represents, both men still try to grip the other with as much strength as they can, a friendly display but a display nonetheless. 

“Arya said you protected her, back when you were traveling with the Night’s Watch.” It is meant as appreciation, but when Gendry smirks Jon hardens his face. 

“I don’t know about that,” he confesses. “That girl don’t need no protector. She’s saved my ass more times then I can count, though.”

Jon lowers his glance, his heart bursting with how impressed he still is by his little sister. Still, this man deserves to know how important he is to her. “She told me that you would hold her while she slept, that you made her feel safe enough _to_ sleep.” 

“She said that?” Another grin finds his face before something occurs to him and he straightens in a panic. “Back then it wasn’t like that, we weren’t, she was just a kid. I swear I never–”

“I know,” Jon interrupts clapping a hand down on his shoulder. “Relax, Gendry. If I thought you meant my sister any harm you’d already be dead. I wouldn’t waste time with a conversation first, even to stall so the girls could catch up.”

Gendry lets the idea of that settle in for a moment, before he does in fact relax. 

“I thought she was dead all these years. When she came to find me in my shop I was floored. Not just that she was alive, but that she was grown up, and so…” He feels Jon’s hand tighten in a warning and he thinks better of finishing his thought.

“Come on, let’s get back. We should all try and get some sleep before heading out, and the sun will be coming up soon.”


	55. The Wars to Come

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> On the eve of battle, Arya spends the night with Gendry and Jon spends the night with Sansa.

The final war council before the start of battle takes place inside the great hall of Castle Cerwyn. When the armies arrived, the entirety of the castle’s occupants were waiting for them, dead and skinless, hanging along the outside of the walls. The Bolton soldiers had abandoned the fortress once their work was done, and were surely garrisoned back at Winterfell now. Smoke and the stench of burning flesh wafts up through the empty halls, filling Sansa's nose making her want to retch. 

“Why didn’t they burn the castle?” Sansa wonders aloud during the meeting. 

Everyone looks at her, drawing her attention to the fact that she’d spoken the random query in the middle of a discussion about siege engines. Jon had been instructing Brynden on how to prepare the oil barrels and position the trebuchets so that the fires would reach only to the outer walls when launched. 

“What do you mean?” Jon asks in confusion. “They live there now, why would they burn Winterfell?”

“No,” Sansa clarifies, shaking her head, “this castle, Castle Cerwyn. Why didn’t the Boltons burn it when they left?” 

Jon watches her for a moment with concern. The look on her face as they approached the castle and she saw the men, women, and children flayed before them will be forever seared into his mind. He knows she doesn't feel comfortable staying here, but it is still their best option for keeping her safe during the battle. “I don’t know,” he says softly. “They probably wanted to make sure we saw what they did.” 

Sansa looks as though she is considering his reasoning for a moment, and then she looks away again. Jon thinks she has returned to her own reverie and so he continues with his instructions to the others. 

Arya and Gendry sit beside each other, listening as Jon speaks in a familiar shorthand with Brynden, Davos, and Tormund. Yara is sitting between Royce and Fenn, looking stony and fierce. The Hound is standing quietly behind Sansa and Arya notices him watching her more than he's paying attention to the council. At first, this causes her to study him, assessing what reason he might have to be so focused on her pretty sister. But then her eyes move to Sansa and she can immediately see what holds his attention.

Sansa isn’t lost in some haze of shock from seeing the dead bodies. She isn’t paralyzed with guilt over the loss of life for their cause either. Arya watches as her sister’s eyes narrow and her breath sharpens. Her fingernails press deeper and deeper into the opposite hands as she worries them together. Then Arya sees her jaw clench as her teeth bite down on the inside corner of her mouth. 

“Arya,” Jon addresses loudly, pulling her attention back to the conversation. “I want you guarding Sansa here.” 

Both sisters connect their eyes to each other and then back to Jon, saying in unison, “What?”

“Brienne is gone. She will have other guards, you both will. But I want you by each other’s side day and night while I’m with the armies.” 

“But I want to fight!” Arya barks. “I’m a better fighter than any of your soldiers. Jon, I’ll show you. Really, I’m good!” He sees her glance at Yara for a split second before she recomposes herself. 

“I know you are,” he tries to say kindly, but Arya’s scowl tells him it might have come across as condescending. “That’s why I need you protecting the Lady of Winterfell.” 

Sansa closes her eyes, fully aware that Jon couldn’t have made a worse choice of words, and her sister’s screech soon follows. 

“You guard her, then!” Arya stands up and Jon looks afraid. “I brought you the Ironborn! I brought you a pack of fucking wolves! I’m not going to just sit by the fire knitting while–”

“Enough!” Jon roars. Arya’s mouth hangs open in silence and the look in her eyes alone seems capable of murdering him where he stands. Jon lowers his voice, but not his tone of authority, and adds, “Arya, this is my command and that is final.”

“ _Jon_ ,” Sansa gasps, shocked at his harshness, but then he glares at her too and she says no more. 

Both his sisters remain silently staring daggers at him for the remainder of the council meeting as Jon discusses the role of the Ironborn with Yara. Theon listens from a standing position behind her but does not speak the entire time. They will move into position at night after the first day of the siege, and then scale the side walls once the bulk of the Bolton forces are drawn to the front gates.

The Freefolk will join the Knights of the Vale on the battlefield to meet any forces on the ground with arrow cover as the Tully army moves the siege engines into place. Jon will be commanding the infantry as they approach the castle. Then, once the Ironborn give the signal that the walls have been breached, Jon will lead the cavalry to the side and rear gates as the trebuchets rain fire on the outer walls. 

When everyone has their instructions, the council disperses, with all exiting the hall apart from Jon, Arya, Sansa and Gendry. Sansa glances between Jon and Arya, recognizing her sister’s intention of staying behind to challenge his orders, and she hesitates for a moment in fear for his safety. But then he glances instructively at her and Sansa leaves the room too, pulling on Gendry’s arm as a signal that he should follow.

Jon watches the doors to the hall close behind them before turning to face the wrath that awaits him. 

“So, you just _command_ me, now?” Arya begins, “Is that it?” Her small stature stands in a posture so threatening it makes her look three times her size. “You weren’t even going to ask me what I thought?”

“When was I supposed to ask you, Arya?” His defensive retort surprises her and she hesitates in firing back. “You’ve barely spoken to me since you came back.”

Arya closes her mouth now, fully unprepared for this specific confrontation. It was true. She'd done her best to hide it, but she was furious with him. It was one thing when she could tell herself it might not be true, but seeing them kiss while she was warging into Nymeria had removed all doubt. How could he do this? After everything Sansa had been through, how could he... The best she can do is scoff dismissively at him, but he keeps pushing.

“Something's bothering you,” Jon insists, almost accusingly, and she can’t help clenching her fists. “Arya, if you have something to say to me, just say it.” 

She takes a breath, turning her body square with his as her lips curl back from her teeth, and he waits at the ready as she looks him up and down. Flashes of seeing Jon kiss Sansa flood her mind, making her squeeze her fists so hard her nails break the skin of her palms, but then she just turns and starts to walk away from him.

“Where are you going?” he calls after her.

Arya pulls open one of the heavy wooden doors to the hall and then looks back at her brother with the full breadth of anger she’d been trying to suppress since the day she'd felt his pulse quicken in the forest. 

“To the camp,” she spits at him, straightening herself in defiance. “I’m going to go fuck Gendry before he goes off into battle without me. I trust Lady Stark will be safe enough without my services for the evening, _Commander_? I’m sure she’ll be in good hands.” Her furious eyes comb over him once more and then she is gone, leaving Jon feeling as though he’d been hit in the face by the full force of a blizzard. He finds himself longing for the fighting to begin. At least _that_ he knows how to do. 

***

When Jon enters the chamber she’ll be using while at the castle, the sight of her causes him to lose his train of thought. She is in a bath, with steam rising up around her bare shoulders as her head rests easy against the back of the tub. He moves closer and the pale slopes of her breasts come into view over the side of the basin, the pink tips of her nipples peeking out above the milky water. 

“You look relaxed,” he says in a quiet rumble. Her eyes stay closed but he sees the side of her mouth curl into a smirk.

“I had drawn this bath for you, but then I decided I was angry with you and so I took it for myself.” 

“Oh really?” he teases. “Well, apparently both my sisters have that in common tonight.” 

Jon sits on the edge of her bed and starts unlacing his boots. He notices her turn to look at him but he concentrates on his task, not wishing to be scolded further. Still, he knows it is coming.

“You shouldn’t have spoken to her like that,” Sansa says softly. He glances at her then, and the guilt in his eyes tells her he agrees. Then she turns back to her relaxed pose, eyes closed, as he continues to undress behind her. “And you really shouldn’t have said that Lady of Winterfell thing. I mean really, Jon. Don’t you know Arya better than – hey!”

Suddenly his body is crowding the bath and she opens her eyes in time to see his cock disappearing below the water as he sloshes down into the tub, opposite her. She pretends to scowl at him and he flicks water at her face, causing her to sputter. Sansa shifts her bent legs to kick at him, but he grabs both of her ankles and yanks her toward him until she is straddling his lap. 

Sansa lets out a laughing protest that is quickly swallowed by his lips pressed forcefully against hers. His tongue pushes past her gasping lips and fills her mouth in a possessive claim as his hands slide up her legs to pull her hips against him. She feels his hard cock pushing into her stomach as she rocks into him, being swept up in the heat of his movements before pushing back to catch her breath. 

“I’m still angry with you,” she insists as she shoves her long fingers through his hair, loosening the leather tie that holds it back. 

Jon tightens his grip around her ass and grinds her harder against his length, his eyes cruel in the way that makes her quiver for him. “I don’t care,” he threatens. “Be angry if you want. Tonight, you’re mine.”

Sansa lets out a moan as she feels the fingers on one of his hands slide into her from behind as the other reaches up to grasp her breast. “Jon,” she whimpers as his teeth close around her nipple, his tongue flicking it roughly in its capture. “Please.” 

He feels her fucking herself on his hand faster, trying to pull him deeper. “Please, what?” he demands as he moves his assaulting lips to her other breast. 

“Please, Jon. Fuck me. Don’t make me wait. I want you inside me, now.” Her lewd begging makes him groan so hard it vibrates through her nipple trapped between his lips.

Sansa feels his fingers slip out of her, leaving her empty and wanton, as Jon reaches between them to grab his aching cock. He pushes into her with a force that fills her to the hilt in one hard thrust. Sansa cries out, feeling herself stretched open around him, and he then his arm wraps around her waist, holding her seated in place. 

His mouth returns to her breasts and her moans start to become whines as she tries to rock her hips, but his hold on her keeps her all but motionless. “Please,” she begs. His tongue flicks her nipples harder and she presses herself forward into his mouth. But still, he won’t let her move her hips. His cock remains agonizingly still within her, and Sansa starts clenching around him in an attempt for some relief. 

Jon pulses and growls against her skin. “Fuck, that feels good,” he teases. “Your cunt is so tight it feels like you’re trying to swallow me.” 

“Please,” she chokes out again. “Jon, I need it. I need you to move.”

“Like this?” Jon pulls her up the length of his cock and then back down again. But just once. 

Sansa drops her head to his shoulder and squeezes her eyes shut, looking as though she might cry. “More, _please_!” 

“Mmm, I don’t know,” he teases, still holding her in place. “I kind of like the sound of you begging.”

“Jon!” Her body begins to tremble and he kisses her neck sweetly.

“Sansa, look at me.” 

Her eyes open, wild with desire, and when they meet his he steadies her with his stare. Then he pulls her hips again, gliding her this time in a continued movement, up and down his hard length, watching as her face contorts with both relief and growing need. Jon keeps his eyes locked on hers and they move in a strong rhythm, their breath quickening against each other’s faces. 

He feels her hands grip his hair and his tongue brushes against her gaping lips. He knows she’s close and he loosens his grip from her waist, letting her take control of the pace. Water spills over the sides of the tub as her hips start to rise and fall on him faster. The moans escaping her throat become louder and then her hands drop from his hair as she leans back, catching herself on his knees behind her. 

“That’s it, sweet girl. Ride my cock until you come all over me. Show me how good I make you feel.”

“Oh gods, Jon. Yes!” Her tits bounce up and down as she bucks her hips harder and Jon closes both hands around them, squeezing her sensitive peaks between his knuckles. She starts to come, her body stretching back farther as her pulsing cunt grips him inside of her with a force that rips his own end from him without warning.

Sansa feels his hot spurts brutally filling her as she continues to spasm around him in waves of ecstasy. Her back arches so far back that her head dips into the water before she pulls herself forward again, falling against his chest in a dizzy collapse. One last pulse flows into her from his cock as he grunts against her shoulder with the release and his hands grip her back so hard that she’s sure they will leave bruises tomorrow. 

When they’ve finally caught their breath, and their hearts have returned to a normal pace, she slides off of him and stretches her legs behind her so that she can lay the length of her body against his. They remain like that, in a gentle embrace, while Jon lazily strokes his fingers up and down her back.

***

Arya is still angry when she enters his tent, and Gendry watches her carefully. Without a word, she begins stripping off her clothes, stopping only long enough to glare at him as if to ask why he isn’t doing the same. The look is effective and soon he’s caught up with her actions, standing before her naked and hard. 

“Lay down,” she tells him roughly, and he is quick to obey. Then she straddles his chest, facing down the length of his body, and leans forward until she captures his cock in her mouth. 

Gendry releases a short gasp before he hooks his arms around her thighs and pulls her back until she is pressed against his face. His tongue pushes into her and the force of it causes her mouth to tighten around his cock in response. They hungrily consume each other, releasing obscene noises of wet flesh against sucking lips. Arya’s head bobs up and down, pulling him further into her throat with each stroke of her mouth around his cock. Her pussy soaks Gendry face, her juice dripping down the sides of his lips, and trailing onto his neck. He presses into her deeper, slurping as his greedy tongue darts in and out of her and his lower lip gnaws roughly against her clit. 

“Mmph,” he moans into her as his hands spread her open even more. He pulls back a little, so he can speak, pressing back into her between each word. “Arya… I’m… mmph… I’m gonna...!”

Her thighs clamp down around his head and she pushes her cunt down onto his face, smothering him in her heat as the pace of her mouth quickens on his cock. His muffled cries pulse into her and she rides his mouth harder, feeling her peak rushing to the surface just as he starts to release into her mouth. She swallows his seed in moaning gulps as she feels her pussy start to convulse. She sucks him tighter between her lips and comes so hard that, for the first time, a flood of liquid squirts from her cunt in pulsing gushes. Gendry tries hard to capture as much of it as he can, drinking her down in heavy gulps, but she can still feel that she is soaking not only him but the bedding below him without even needing to look. When she’s swallowed the last of his seed she slides his cock out of her mouth with a pop, and then releases the grip of her thighs from his head before turning to face him as she straddles his stomach. 

“Wow,” he gasps, staring at her in wonder as the evidence of her rapture glistens on his face and neck. Even his hair is damp, and Arya studies the sight of him, completely in shock at what just happened. “I didn’t know you could do that.”

“Neither did I,” she pants. They stare at each other for a moment longer before Gendry’s lips spread into a wide grin that makes her laugh. Then she leans down and kisses him, lapping up her own taste from his lips, beard, and throat with an enthusiasm he suspects is born of pride. 

He is hard again already and the tip of his cock reaches for her as he pulls her hips down his waist. She takes him inside of her, easing down slowly as his pulsing thickness fills her still drenched passage. Soon she is riding him hard, bouncing up and down on his dick while he peers up at her in gaping wonder. 

“Fuck, Arya. You are so sexy.” His hands lift to her breasts and he kneads at them roughly with his hard fingers. She pulls one of his hands higher, taking his forefinger into her mouth as the others wrap lightly around her neck. Her teeth press down on his tip and he squeezes his hand around her slightly, eliciting a devilish moan he feels humming through her throat. 

She starts fucking him harder and Gendry whimpers at the look in her eyes. Then he flips her over so that she is beneath him, his cock never leaving her. Now he's fucking her, hard and rough, watching her eyes darken with every thrust. 

“You like that?” he whispers roughly. She grunts, almost in pain, as his hips slam against her and she nods. Then he moves his hand back to her throat, holding her firmly in place against the mattress while being careful not to squeeze too tight. She moans again and he feels her gush around him, his balls splashing in loud slaps against her ass as his pounds. 

“Yes,” she chokes, “ _harder_.” 

Gendry pulls out of her so fast that she groans and then he wraps his massive hands around her legs and flips her violently onto her stomach. Arya tries to balance herself with her hands, but before she can even lift her head he grabs her hips and pulls her up onto her knees. Then he is inside her again, ramming her harder and faster than he ever has as her cries fill the night. She doesn’t care, and right now neither does he. Let them all hear her howls. Let the world hear her screaming his name. Gendry reaches forward and wraps her hair in his fist, pulling her head up from the bed until she is leaning back against his chest. His other arm wraps around her waist to hold her steady as she reaches behind her to hold onto his neck. He fucks her so hard she starts to lift off the bed entirely. 

“Oh fuck! I’m gonna come! Gendry, I’m AHHH!” He pushes his cock all the way in and releases hot bursts of cum deep inside her until he feels the pressure of her pulsing cunt push against him so hard he has to pull out. Another shower gushes out of her as she holds onto him and he holds onto her, both watching the final squirts splash against their legs. They stare at the mess they’ve made in awe as he sits back on his heels with her shaking wildly on his lap.

“Are you okay?” he pants in her ear, but all she can do is nod. She is breathing so hard, with her mouth gaping wide, that her throat starts to burn and she knows she wouldn’t be able to speak even if she tried. 

Gendry moves himself back against the mattress, still keeping her on top of him in a secure hold as his hands stroke her everywhere, rubbing their cum and sweat into her skin as she writhes under his touch. Her body begins to settle and he feels her heartbeat slowing as he gently massages her tits. 

“You’re incredible, do you know that?” His voice sends a chill down her neck and she smiles, finally turning in his arms to face him again as she lays down beside him. “What did I ever do to deserve you? Hmm? I keep thinking I’m going to wake up in my shop in King’s Landing and realize this was all a dream.”

Arya lifts herself to his face and kisses him slowly. Then she bites his bottom lip in a sudden sharp attack that makes him yelp. “It’s not a dream,” she smirks. “And remember that tomorrow, when you’re on the battlefield. Remember what’s waiting for you if you stay alive.” 

He smiles and pulls her closer, kissing her deeply again. “Are you angry with me? That I’ll be fighting without you?”

“No,” she confesses before dropping her head back to his chest. Her fingers trace him now, memorizing the curves of his hard stomach. “I’m just worried. I won’t be there to protect you, you know.” 

“Oh, and I suppose I’m useless without you then?” he challenges back. She feels him flex his muscles defensively beneath her and it makes her giggle.

“No,” she vows, tracing her fingers lowers on his body, teasing him slowly until she feels him relax again in defeat. “I’m just saying I’ve had to save your ass more than once.” Her hand curves around his hip and she digs her nails into the flesh of his bum. “And this ass is mine now, so I’d appreciate you making sure it gets back to me in one piece.” 

***

Jon pulls Sansa closer as she lays panting on his chest. Their bodies glimmer with sweat in the firelight, having made love four times already and each time more vigorously than the last. Sansa’s arm is wrapped around her stomach as she holds his hand that is cradled behind her. His other hand caresses her gently, his fingertips gliding along her face and neck and breasts. 

“Did I hurt you?” he whispers as his touch traces a red mark forming on her shoulder in the shape of his teeth. 

Sansa laughs softly and says, “No. Did I hurt you?” 

Jon smiles and presses his lip to her hair, breathing her in. “Aye, you might’ve done. Not that you’ll ever hear me complaining about it.” 

“You’ve got a war to fight tomorrow, Jon Snow. Perhaps you should sharpen your defenses on the eve of battle.”

“No doubt, especially with both my sisters out for my blood.” Jon swipes his hand across the red drops beading up from the scratch her nails made against his chest. Sansa bites her lip and smiles half-apologetically. 

“Arya will get over it. Don’t worry about her. Besides, if it helps I’m sure I'll irritate her enough while you're gone that she will forget all about hating you for making her sit out the war. By the time it’s over, she’ll be back to hating me instead.” 

Jon lifts his face to look at her, one eyebrow raised in sudden suspicion. “Why _has_ she been so nice to you lately, and so cold to me?”

“Jealous?” she smirks at him, but he only frowns.

“Honestly, Sansa. Even before the council meeting, she’s barely spoken a word to me. Something is bothering her and I just don’t know what I did.”

“Maybe she’s worried about what you’ll think of Gendry.”

“No! See, that’s what I mean. Before she left to find him, it was _you_ she worried about disapproving of him, not me. And I’ve been nothing but nice to the kid.”

“You did punch him multiple times in the face. And almost cut his throat.” 

“But I didn’t mean to, she knows that.” He pauses and then looks at her again, less sure. “Doesn’t she?”

“You need to relax. Don’t worry about Arya tonight.” Sansa kisses him softly and then presses her forehead to his. “Jon, listen to me.”

He watches her carefully and she pulls him in with her crystal eyes.

“This is it, what we’ve been working toward. Everything we’ve suffered, everything we’ve learned, has brought us to this moment. It's time, Jon. It’s time to take back what’s ours. Our home, the North.” Sansa pulls his hand to her stomach, holding it in place with hers. “Our family.”

He rolls her onto her back and lays on his stomach beside her, resting his face against her belly as he kisses her sweetly. Her fingers stroke through his curls and it makes him feel safe. 

“Will you stay with me tonight?” she whispers, almost timidly. Jon lifts his eyes to hers, resting his chin on her hip, and he smiles.

“Nothing could tear me away from you tonight, my love.” His lips return to her skin, the flesh of her stomach rising to meet his touch. Then he shifts his kisses lower, nipping her hips and thighs with his insatiable mouth before sinking against her wet heat. 

“Mmm,” she moans as her legs drift apart and he rests himself between them. “Jon, I don’t know if I can – oh, gods!” His tongue parts her sensitive folds and he brings it up gently to find her clit still swollen and no doubt sore. Jon soothes her raw skin with light licks and his soft breath against her. Then, slowly, he pulls her between his lips, sucking her into his mouth as she tilts up to meet him. 

Jon’s cock begins to stiffen again against the mattress as he works her lazily with his tongue, dipping down to tease her folds before drawing back up to nurse on her clit again. Her weak cries for mercy fill his ears and before long he loses his patience and draws himself up her body, entering her slowly as he captures her sweet sounds with his lips on hers. 

His hands find hers and he lifts her arms above her head, twining their fingers together as he moves deeper and deeper into her. The feeling of her body wrapped around him is something he never wants to part from, not even for a moment. He wants this night to last forever, to be one with her for the rest of his days. 

“Jon,” she whimpers against his lips. His mouth moves to her neck and she moans into his ear. “I love you. I love you _so_ much.”

Her words make him pulse inside of her and his hips start to thrust with more urgency. He looks down at her, releasing one of her hands to cradle his beneath her neck. “And I love you, more than you could ever know.” His thumb caresses her cheek as the rest of his fingers swim through her silky hair. “Sansa, I never knew anything like this could be possible. Not for me.”

She lifts her hands to his strong arms around her and strokes him gently, panting his name. “Oh Jon, my sweet Jon. Don’t you know by now how wonderful you are? My love… My King.” 

His lips fall to hers again and she begins to meet his thrusts with her own urgency now, feeling another peak starting to build. When she tightens around him her body shakes and tears start to flow down her cheeks without warning. His hips still against her and she feels him coursing inside of her, filling her with his seed once again. 

When the morning sun peaks through the window of her chamber, they awake in the same position, his body laying half on top of her, her legs draped around his hip, and his cock resting at her entrance. They both wince as they move to rise, and then laugh at the shared ache their bodies suffer as a result of their night together. 

Jon watches her clean herself in the basin as he pulls on his tunic, having no desire to wash her from his skin as he prepares for the first day of battle. When they’ve both finished dressing, he kisses her again, letting his lips linger on hers until she pushes him away gently, urging him to leave before the castle begins to stir. 

“Tell me again,” he whispers with her still held tightly in his arms. “Tell me about the vision you had of us in Winterfell on the next full moon.” 

His voice holds no hint of a teasing, perhaps it is even a plea. Sansa touches his face, peering deeply into his eyes and asks, “Are you afraid?”

“Only of losing you.”

“I promise, nothing will happen to me. You mustn’t worry. It will only distract you.” 

He kisses her again and then pulls her against him in a hard embrace. He whispers again, “Tell me?”

Sansa sighs, smiling, and then pulls him by the hand until they are both seated on the end of her bed. “I saw you, beautiful and strong, with your arms wrapped around me. It was snowing, and we stood on the battlements facing north. The moon was bright, full, and larger than I’d ever seen it. The snowy fields below were glowing in its light and the world around us was quiet, peaceful.”

Jon looks down at her hand in his, letting the image fill his mind. “What else did you see?”

“I didn’t see anything else,” she begins and his brow flinches slightly. She strokes his beard softly with her fingers and lifts his eyes back to hers. “But I remember feeling safe, and happy. Happier than I’ve ever felt in my life. We were home and everything was okay, I know it. I _felt_ it. Now go, my wolf. Go and fight. Cast down the traitors who’ve tormented our people, murdered our family, and sullied our home. Show them the North Remembers.” 

With one final kiss, he leaves her. 

Fastening his cloak and pulling on his gloves, he heads for the main gate, his thoughts deep in the mission. Then, just as he is about to reach the door, it opens and Arya stumbles in, disheveled and looking as though she hasn't slept. The dazed look of bliss on her face tells him why, but it falls into a scowl when she sees him. 

“Arya,” he begins, but she shakes her head to silence him. 

“It’s fine, Jon. I understand why you don’t want me to fight. I’m still angry about it, but I suppose that can wait until after the war. Just don’t die, okay? You owe me that much, at least. Besides, I still plan on having words with you about how you spoke to me in front of the others.” 

Jon laughs, wanting to muss her hair, but decides not to risk it yet. “You bark at me all the time.”

“What does that matter? I’m an asshole. You’re supposed to be better than that, _Commander_.”

He rolls his eyes and smiles at the smirk she gives him. Then she sighs and her face turns more serious. “I’ll keep her safe,” she promises. “Don’t worry or do anything stupid. Just focus on what you have to do and win. I’m ready to go home.”

“Me, too.” Jon pulls her into his arms, lifting her off her feet as they hold each other in a tight grip of forgiveness and fear. This is the third time they’ve said goodbye to each other without knowing if it would be the last time they ever would. 

“Keep _both_ my sisters safe,” he orders softly before releasing her. Then he does muss her hair. “And take a bath, you smell like Gendry.” 

Arya looks him up and down with a look of warning, before curling the side of her mouth. “Anything happens to him, and it’s _your_ ass Jon Snow.” He nods and then they leave each other to take their posts.


	56. Now it Begins

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The battle for Winterfell begins.

Theon had exchanged a brief nod with Jon when he’d first approached their camp. Arya had stepped in to introduce Yara and Jon had taken the cue that she was the commander of the Ironborn, addressing her alone when discussion was required. Theon was prepared for whatever Jon chose to confront him with, but so far, he hasn’t.

He awakes before the rest, still alerted by the slightest sounds, and the closer they got to Winterfell, the more he could hear Reek whispering in the back of his mind. The noises coming from Gendry’s tent, which had not relented all night, were still assaulting his ears as Theon exited his tent. But it was the distant howling of hounds that raised him from his bed with a choked breath. 

Moving cautiously toward the edge of camp, he finds a private place in the woods to relieve himself. The process has become manageable, second nature, as if he'd been squatting his whole life. Still, the shame of it keeps him avoiding the act until a moment of isolation presents itself. As he finishes tying his breeches and turns back toward camp, he notices the sounds of Arya have ceased, providing some brief consideration of getting a few more minutes rest before facing the day. But then he turns and sees Jon standing only a few feet away, staring at him. 

Theon takes a deep breath and continues his approach toward the man he grew up alongside. Both raised as brothers to the rest of the Stark children, and both not quite.  
“Jon,” he nods respectfully. He has no choice but to acknowledge the man who is his commanding officer now, and Jon's glaring at him unavoidably. 

Theon waits, but Jon stays still so he moves closer. The look in Jon’s eyes is unmistakable. He is a wolf, with his prey in sight. Theon hesitates, feeling himself begin to tremble with fear. The heat and hate radiating off of Jon is practically burning into him, though he is still just out of arm’s reach. 

_Reek, reek, it rhymes with weak._

He gathers himself, shaking his head slightly to quiet the voice. Then he straightens his back and lifts his eyes back to Jon. Murder meets him in the black pools still fixed on him, unmoving, unrelenting. Then her voice echoes in his mind and it gives him strength. 

_If I’m going to die, let it happen while there’s still some of me left._

Theon takes another step, ready for what comes, and what comes is Jon’s fist around his collar. He barely flinches as he is jerked roughly toward his captor, so close he can feel the warmth of Jon’s breath on his face. He can smell him, too. The stench of hate he knows so well, and something else. Something sweet, and distantly familiar. The smell of a woman. 

He keeps his eyes open, determined to look Jon in the eye and face this justice. Theon sees his lip curl for a moment, then pulls their faces even closer. “What you did for her,” Jon growls threateningly, “is the only reason I’m not killing you.” 

Theon looks away then, the last of his bravery melting completely in the face of this for which he was not prepared, in the face of Jon’s mercy. He feels himself freed from Jon’s grasp and then sees Yara approaching.

“Your men are waiting for you in the council tent, Lord Commander.” Jon keeps his eyes on Theon a moment longer, and then turns to Yara, nodding his acknowledgment before walking away. 

“You alright?” she asks quietly, turning to her brother.

Theon shakes his head again, but doesn’t look at her. “Fine.” 

They return to camp together and enter the council tent for final instructions before they all make the half-day’s ride to Winterfell. 

***

“What are you doing now?” Arya asks, annoyed. Guarding Sansa wasn’t just frustrating, but tedious as Sansa had been keeping herself busy with tasks around the castle all day. Arya had only been able to watch her organizing the maester’s stores and scrolls in the library for so long before she joined in out of sheer boredom. 

“Lord Royce told me he’d instructed some of the men to bring our trunks into the castle, but I’m missing my sewing kit. I think it might have been packed in one of the others before we left Moat Cailin. I saw some of the other trunks in the great hall last night.” Sansa continued down the staircase with Arya following close behind.

As they approached the hall, the stench of burnt flesh assaulted Sansa’s nose again causing her to pause for a moment. Arya, who’d been focus on the silver banners lining the walls with black battle-axes stitched across them, walked into her sister and nearly knocked her to the floor. 

“Arya, what the–” 

“Sorry,” she mutters, straightening them both. 

Then they continue through the doors of the great hall and Sansa looks around, spotting her target at the far end. She makes her way to the collection of trunks lined up near the kitchens and starts examining them for identifying marks. 

“So, tell me about Gendry,” Sansa requests while she sorts through the pile. She tries to sound casual, nonintrusive, but when she glances at Arya she sees suspicion. “Or don’t. I’m just trying to make conversation.”

“Right.”

Sansa sighs, turning to her now. “Okay, so I’m curious. Is that so terrible?”

Arya considers her for another moment, still not convinced. Sansa rolls her eyes and goes back to searching for her sewing kit, seeming to drop the subject. 

“He’s a bastard,” Arya says eventually. 

Sansa glances at Arya for a moment before continuing her task. “He’s very handsome,” she offers quietly, waiting a moment incase her sister wants to respond. She doesn’t, so Sansa decides to continue. “Do you love him?”

“Is that a problem?”

Sansa looks at her now, dropping all pretense of subtlety. It breaks her heart a little to see the genuine concern Arya has, another reminder that they are still living worlds apart. “Of course not. If he’s good to you, then I think it’s wonderful.”

Arya seems to doubt this sentiment at first, but then her face relaxes into a younger expression, one that cares what her big sister thinks. “You do?”

Sansa smiles at her and clasps her hand for a moment, but then she turns to something that catches her eye. 

A small case, black and unremarkable, is sitting atop a trunk near the back of the pile. “Oh, here it is!” 

She pulls it from the pile, holding it gingerly in her hands as though it were something precious. The small box was given to her at Castle Black by Jon’s friend, Edd. He’d noticed her sewing and offered it to her to keep her things safe. It had a little lock and key, and although she didn’t know why he might think she’d need to lock away her sewing, she’d appreciated the sweetness of his gesture. The thought that she might want something secure, something safe. 

“Look, I’ll clean and organize all day if you want but you’re not going to make me sew, are you?” 

Sansa smirked at Arya, remembering her torturously sitting through sewing lessons as a child. Just as she is about to assure her she’d never be so cruel, something catches her attention and halts her reply. The trunk that had laid beneath the sewing box had a mockingbird etched into the brass of its locked latch. 

“What is it?” Arya asks, noting her sister’s distraction. 

“This is Littlefinger’s trunk.” Sansa pulls it from the wall, its heavy weight making it difficult for her to drag very far. 

“What happened to him? He was with Jon’s army when they were at the Neck.”

“I sent him away,” Sansa replies vaguely, still fixed on the trunk. Arya sees her try the latch, but isn’t surprised to find it locked. Then she looks around, as if searching for the key. “Arya, help me find something to break this open.”

Smirking with appreciation for her sister’s delinquency, she glides up to the trunk and kneels before it, pulling two thin objects from the inside of her jerkin that look almost like crochet needles. Sansa watches her sister work quickly, picking the lock on the trunk with ease, and gasps in surprise when it clicks open. 

The two examine the contents of Lord Baelish’s trunk like children raiding an unsupervised store of sweets. Beneath the fine clothes and grooming tools, lay a few books, diaries, and scrolls. Sansa starts flipping through these as Arya digs her hand deeper into the contents, her eyes going wide as her fingers close around something hard. 

“Fuckin hell!” she cries, pulling Sansa’s disapproving eyes back to what she’s found. It is a beautifully ornate dagger, sheathed in hard leather with a jeweled handle made of dragonbone. 

Arya pulls the blade from its scabbard, eliciting a similar sharp intake of breath from them together. 

“Valyrian steel,” Arya whispers. “How did Littlefinger get a Valryian steel dagger?”

“He’s very resourceful,” Sansa mutters bitterly. Arya watches her for a moment, sensing a sadness in her sister, and a practiced effort to disguise it. “Keep it, though. He won’t be needing it back.”

***

“The siege towers are nearly finished,” Brynden announces as he rides up next to Jon. From their mounts, they look out over the green hills that skirt Winterfell in a wide expanse. 

This is the first time he’s seen his home since leaving for the Night’s Watch. The sight has held him in a trance all day, with various generals keeping him informed as the preparations advance.

Jon nods, acknowledging the Blackfish, but keeps his eyes fixed on the flayed men banners marring the walls. Actual flayed men burn on crosses throughout the fields, but it is the banners that stoke the flames within him now. The beast has awoken again and its rage is radiating through him stronger than it ever has. Even Tormund has kept his interactions brief and without jest. 

Soon he will be gathering his men into formation and until then, he will remain where he is. Jon can see if anyone goes in or out of the castle from this position, though no one has, and he is sure no one will. Not yet. So, he watches the banners. 

He lets himself drown in the bloody symbol, he allows the memory of Sansa’s scars consume him. He can feel the texture of them on his fingertips and he clings to the phantom touch. 

“Trenches are done.” It’s Clegane this time, but when Jon nods his acknowledgment the man remains beside him. After a few quiet minutes, he asks, “Why aren’t there any archers?” 

“They know our strategy," Jon answers flatly. "He plans to make us exhaust our oil barrels while he keeps his archers stationed on the rear gates. He wants to make me to burn my home down while he crushes the Ironborn.” 

“So, are we changing tactics then?”

“No.” 

Clegane doesn’t ask, instead his silence reveals his understanding of the situation. Jon is sacrificing the Greyjoys. 

“It’s time.” Jon shifts his glance from the castle at last, and rides back to the infantry with Clegane at a generous distance behind him.

***

Arya flips the dagger back and forth between hands without looking, as she lounges in a wide leather chair, her eyes focused on her sister. Watching Sansa sew was surprisingly more entertaining than she’d expected. At first, she was simply watching the tremble in her sister's hands to gage her level of anxiety. Sansa would be understandably worried about the battle, but this was something else. And that something was what Arya had noticed at the council yesterday. Still, she’s finding herself admiring the artistry in her sister’s work.

“What are you making?”

“I thought you were supposed to be some kind of brilliant spy assassin now.”

“So?”

“So, don’t ask questions you already know the answer to. Say what you mean.” 

“I knows it’s a cloak, I just meant it’s different than... oh never mind.” 

Arya turns her attention back to her dagger, sneering at Sansa’s smirk. But then she sees her holding up the cloak for examination. It seems almost crooked, but as Arya looks it over, she realizes it is cut to connect over the right shoulder, a cape, with arm holes allowing for movement from both sides, while still concealing the right hip. 

“Are you making this for me?” she deduces with surprise.

Arya continues to look it over, the details taking on even more sentiment now. Then Sansa goes back to work and Arya feels a prickle behind her eyes that keeps her silent for a moment. 

“That still isn’t what you wanted to say. You’re not the only one who can detect deception, you know.” 

“I’m sure you’ve had a lot of practice.” 

Her words are sincere, but Sansa’s brow flinches anyway. 

“What’s worrying you?” Arya watches Sansa try to gather herself and adds, “ _Other_ than the battle. Whatever it is, you were thinking about it last night when you asked why the Boltons didn’t burn the castle.”

At this they meet each other’s eyes. Sansa bites the inside of her mouth again, but then takes a deep breath and answers. “I just have a bad feeling. It’s probably nothing, but something just seems off. Ramsay isn’t just a military man. He’s… I don’t know, clever. He’s smart, but even more so, he’s cruel. And he enjoys tormenting people, even when a straightforward attack would be more effective. The safest thing would have been to burn this castle to the ground. It would have left us no shelter, and forced me to be in closer reach.”

Arya has stopped flipping her dagger and is now focused sharply on every word. 

“When he first caught Theon, he’d already had him strapped to a cross. He had gotten all of the information he needed from him. He could have killed him, or kept torturing him, or taking him to his father. But instead, he freed him.”

“What?” This confuses Arya, something she isn’t used to experiencing often. 

“At first he didn’t do the torturing himself. He disguised himself as a servant, and came to him in the night pretending to be sent by his sister and let him go. He gave him a horse and lead him toward what he thought was safety, but really he was leading him to hunters.”

“Hunters?” 

“Bolton soldiers who chased him firing arrows.”

“It was a trap.” 

“It was, but he didn’t stop there. Ramsay killed the Bolton soldiers, rescuing Theon from them, before leading him again to what he thought was safety. Only he actually lead him right back to his prison cell. It was a game. He killed his own men, risked the life of the valuable prisoner he’d been ordered to keep alive, and went through the trouble of gaining his trust and appreciation. All just to see the look on his face when he revealed himself as they entered his torture chamber once again.”

“What do you think he’s planning now?”

“I don’t know, I–”

Just then, Arya’s attention is drawn to the windows. The fire that had been set to burn the bodies had died out hours ago, but now flames are rising again. She moves closer, seeing Vale guards rushing toward the blaze. Then another ignites on the opposite side of the castle. Then two more, and another, and another. 

“Go to your chamber,” she commands her sister. “Now! Bar the door and hide somewhere. Blow all your candles out!”

“What – Arya, what’s happening?”

“Go!” Arya rushes about the hall extinguishing candles and Sansa rushes toward the door. Her sister follows close behind, and as Sansa ascends the staircase toward her chamber, she sees Arya continue to cloak the castle in darkness. 

More guards meet Sansa at the top of the staircase and question where Arya is. She turns back, but her sister is gone in the dark. They rush her to her room and Sansa follows her sister’s instructions, locking her door and snuffing all candles before closing herself up into a wardrobe. 

***

As they approach the field, Jon leads the formation and sees the gates to Winterfell opening. A vanguard of Bolton soldiers filters out on foot, lining up in a formation of no more than a thousand men. Jon continues leading the mounted knights, with the Wildlings falling in behind them.

There are still no archers on the walls, but the Boltons don’t draw Jon close enough for it to matter if there were. The vanguard charges, rushing toward certain death, as they are no match for Jon’s forces. They cut through them quickly, defeating each soldier systematically as none will yield. The siege engines are moved into place and Jon heads back toward camp as the dead are collected for burning. 

Theon meets him at the top of the hill, presumably to await instruction to prepare the night attack, but as Jon approaches Theon rushes toward him.

“ _Jon_ ,” he shouts with a fearlessness he'd yet to display around the commander. “Who were those men? What happened?” 

Jon looks at him with confusion, and then back at the field where the bodies are being piled. “What are you talking about? They were Boltons.” 

“No,” Theon insists. “I’ve seen the Bolton army. I’ve seen them fight. Those were no soldiers, didn’t you see? Most of them barely knew how to properly swing a sword.” 

Jon calls back to Tormund, who is carrying a dead body across his back. “Bring him here.”

Tormund drops the soldier at their feet and Theon leans down to pull off his helmet. It’s a boy, no older than ten and three. Tormund grabs another and before this body is laid on the ground, Jon can see the frame is slight, the hair peeking out from it long and soft. A girl. 

Theon falls to his knees and pulls her helmet off as well. He takes a queasy breath, balling his fist, and then steadies his trembling face. “She was a kitchen maid. She’s served at Winterfell since your family still held it. And her mother before her. Ramsay took her so often, she probably prayed for the chance to escape him, even in death.” 

Jon looks at the girl, leaning down and moving her hair back from her face. He can recognize her now, too. Shock and disgust overwhelm him. For a moment he is frozen, unsure of what to do. Then Theon captures his attention by grabbing his arm.

“Something’s wrong,” he warns darkly.

“Obviously.” 

“No,” Theon insists, jerking his grip on him sharply. “Jon, we need to go back to camp.”

They enter the war council tent, Jon still in a daze, and Theon begins to pace. “He planned this. He’s setting something up.”

“I know,” Jon says quietly. 

Theon waits, but when no more is said he shouts, “Jon! You have to listen to me.” 

Jon shakes his head, finally gathering himself, and then looks at Theon. “He figured out our strategy. That’s why he didn’t have any archers on the walls. He’s gathered his forces near the back, so he must know we planned to have your forces breach the gates tonight.”

“No, not that. I already knew about that.”

“You did?" Jon questions suddenly. "Yet you were still planning to go through with it?” Theon looks at him unwaveringly and Jon considers him for a moment.

“And I still am, but Jon you need to listen. This was a display. A diversion.” Theon paces again, pushing his hands to his face, trying to think. Suddenly, it occurs to him. “Sansa. You need to check on Sansa.”

“What do you mean?” 

“It’s what she said about them not burning the castle. You need to go back to Castle Cerwyn. Go with only a few men, and try not to be seen. I’ll go forward with the attack on the gates, maybe he won’t realize you’ve caught on.”

He turns to leave and Jon calls after him, “Theon, wait!”

“Jon, please, you have to go now, it might already be too late. You don’t know him.”

“No, Theon, I’m going. It’s just, the plan isn’t actually to go to the gates.” Jon hands him a map he’d had ready inside his jerkin. “Follow these instructions and take your men through the crypts.” 

Theon looks at it in disbelief as he takes hold of the parchment. 

“Did you really think I would sacrifice you and all your men? And your sister?” Jon really wants to know.

“I’m prepared to do what’s necessary. And my sister is a warrior. I warned her what was coming and she laughed at the chance to fight him again.” 

“Again?”

“When I was Ramsay’s prisoner, Yara tried to save me.”

Jon nods, then he brings his hand up to grip Theon’s shoulder. The two exchange a glimpse, an acknowledgement of something, maybe not a repair, but an intent to visit the possibility again, should they survive this war. Then they part, in equal urgency and determination, each on their own missions. 

***

Commotion, crashing, and screams permeate into her hiding space, assaulting her nerves to the point of paralysis. She holds her breath again, listening for a scream that sounds like Arya’s, but so far they are only those of grown men. A few of the grunts might have been hers, but not the screams. Not yet.

Everything goes quiet. It isn't the first time. She waits, knowing that it's not over yet, and though it takes longer this time, another scream and crash pierces the blind darkness, and all she can determine is that they're getting further away. Tears fall down her face as she squeezes her grip around the hilt of her thin blade even harder. 

Suddenly she hears a loud crash against her chamber door and she bites down on the sleeve of the coat she is hiding behind in the wardrobe to keep from screaming. Another crash, and then the door bursts open. She can hear breathing, heavy and sloppy, grotesque and too fervent to be her sister. 

Lumbering steps move closer and she readies herself in a position to strike, feet balanced beneath her crouching legs. She will find his eyes and plunge the dagger in as deep as she can. She must drive it all the way to his brain. She knows she has one chance so she focuses, promising that whatever sight greets her when he opens the wardrobe she will not falter. She reminds herself that she’s been forced to look at flayed bodies, been attacked by a mob of men, watched her father’s head getting cut off. Nothing can scare her now.

Sansa holds the blade tight, raised to eye level, and covers her belly protectively with her other hand. Then the doors swing open and she takes a deep breath as the hideous man's face appears inches from her own, but before she can lunge at him a shower of blood sprays across her chest and neck, and the man falls to the floor with a thud. A flame ignites against the wick of a candle and Arya stands above the man now choking out his last gurgling breaths through his open throat. Sansa watches, shaking, as her sister returns Littlefinger’s bloody knife back into its scabbard. Then Sansa leans out of the wardrobe and vomits onto the boots of the dead soldier.


	57. Mask

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon, Gendry, and the Hound find Arya and Sansa at Castle Cerwyn.

“Are you alright?” Arya grabs onto Sansa’s arm as she stumbles from the wardrobe, helping her to step over the dead body at their feet. 

Sansa is shaking, with her dagger still gripped tightly in her hand. She looks down at herself, seeing the blood staining her dress in a gruesome splay across her chest. 

“Are they all dead?” she asks in a whisper, finally meeting her sister’s eyes.

“Yes.”

“How many?”

“Twenty. A few more outside, the Knights of the Vale got all of them, but it was a brutal fight. Only two knights returned, and they fell soon after they got back inside.”   
Arya starts to move, setting to work on a task Sansa doesn’t have the wherewithal to question just now. She brings the wash basin over, placing it on the floor next to the dead man. 

“I tried my best with the Boltons inside, but we were outnumbered. They’re all dead, though. This was the last one. But our men are all gone, too.” 

Arya glances up just long enough to see Sansa’s eyes widening, and then she turns her eyes back to the dead man. Even in the dark room, lit only by a single sconce now, Sansa sees the frustration in the crease of Arya’s brow and remembers Jon describing the way she blames herself for every life she couldn’t save. 

“You saved my life.” Sansa’s ability to form complete sentences is slowly returning. “How did you–”

“Can you find me a cloth or something? I need to wash his face.” 

Sansa remains speechless with her mouth agape for a moment, and then her sister glares at her and she finds herself suddenly following orders. She stretches across to the wardrobe, keeping her feet planted where they are so as to keep as much distance between herself and the corpse as possible, and pulls out the first garment she touches. Thankfully, her long limbs allowed for the reach, but she moves back further anyway once she’s steadied herself again. 

The garment she grabbed is the pale pink underskirt she’d been wearing the first night in Greywater Watch. It was a favorite of hers now, and she’d even embroidered a purple flower on it, just above the hem. It was like the one she’d seen growing in the dark the night of the feast, when she’d stepped out to the balcony, her own secret reminder of their time there. 

She uses the thin dagger still in her hand to slice the skirt into strips, handing them to Arya as she goes. The piece with the flower though, she tucks it into her sleeve when Arya isn’t looking. 

“Should I do anything? Clean up the sick?” Sansa still wasn’t sure what her sister had planned, but she knew better than to waste time asking for an explanation. She wanted to be helpful, though.

“No, I don’t need all of him clean.” Arya lifts a dripping pink strip from the basin and wrings it out over the man’s head. Sansa feels queasy again watching the blood and grime smear down the sides of his face. Once she’s repeated the same motion a few more time, effectively rinsing most of the filth from his face and hair, Arya lowers the cloth to his skin.

Sansa witnesses the ritual with fascinated awe as her sister, her rough warrior sister, moves the silk across the man’s brow. The motion is gentle, delicate even. She washed him with sacred care as if he were a cherished member of her family, or a lover. 

Her own face, which only moments ago was hard and terrifying, has relaxed into angelic serenity. If Sansa didn’t know any better, she might wonder if Arya is going to shed a tear. When the flesh is cleansed completely, Arya sits back and places both of her hands on her knees.   
“You might not want to watch this next part,” she says quietly, her eyes still gazing softly at her victim.

“What?” Sansa whimpers, but when she sees Arya pull out the knife, cleansing it now too, she decides it probably is best she look away. 

***

Gendry and the Hound ride with Jon back to Castle Cerwyn. Typically half a day’s ride from Winterfell, they make it just a few short hours past sundown. The fires surrounding the keep come into view first and Jon kicks his heels into the flanks of his horse so hard the mare screams its acceleration.

When they near the castle, they see that the fires are contained outside the walls, posing no threat to those inside. But that doesn’t soothe them as they ride past the litter of bodies sprawled across the grounds, Boltons and Knights of the Vale both. The gates are open, which causes Jon’s blood to grow even colder, and he rides into the courtyard and all the way up to the keep entrance before dismounting. These doors are ajar as well.

“Arya,” Gendry chokes out as he jumps from his horse beside Jon. 

The Hound is a bit slower getting through the ring of fire surrounding the walls and when he catches up he sees them both disappear into the castle. He follows, finding himself cloaked in darkness. The only light comes from the hint of a glow reaching the windows from the fires beyond the gates, and it is just enough to make out the silhouettes of Jon and Gendry.

Jon finds a torch on one of the walls and Gendry helps him light it. The flame causes Sandor to flinch away, turning his glance toward the floor. “Seven fucking hells.” 

Blood and bone and steel fill the halls, the staircase, even the walls are stained. Jon lights another torch and hands it to Gendry, but the Hound walks away before he can be offered one as well. “Let’s split up,” he growls back to them, marching toward the dark hall that leads to the kitchens.

Jon looks at Gendry and nods, then watches as he heads in the opposite direction, hoisting his hammer over his shoulder at the ready. The dead men all around him could be pieces of wood for all the attention they draw from Jon. He is looking for them, for his girls. A slight shift above him pulls his eyes up the staircase and he takes off up the steps in a mad sprint. 

***

“Do you really have to wear that?” Sansa can barely bring herself to look at the burly Bolton soldier’s hideous face, so she looks at her loosely tied wrists laying in her lap instead. 

“I told you, if they send more men it will be better to act as if I’ve already taken you prisoner.” Arya sighs through his raspy throat and clenches his rotting teeth. “Besides, I need to ask you something, and it will be easier with a mask.”

Sansa does look at her now, concerned by her sister’s words. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

The lumbering man turns his back to her, and says, “Are you pregnant?”

Silence. Not even breath is released, from either of them. Then, after a heavy moment, Sansa whispers, “Wh… what?”

“I guess that’s a yes, then.” 

Arya’s shoulders slump forward a little with a strangeness that is made all the more strange by the bulky girth of them. “I know,” she confesses, then turns to look at her sister with sallow eyes, but Sansa is staring down. “I know about you and Jon.” 

A queasiness rises from Sansa’s gut and she swallows hard to keep from being sick again. “How,” she mouths dryly. 

“I suspected after I saw Jon. I didn’t want to, but I’m trained now to read even the subtlest of emotions in people. And when he talked about you there was nothing subtle about it.” 

Sansa sees Arya rub the back of her neck from the corner of her eye, but still can’t bring herself to look at her, even with the face of a stranger. Though she’s beginning to understand what Arya had meant by it being easier with the mask. 

“I tried not to believe it. I did everything I could to convince myself I was wrong, but then I saw you.”

This does draw Sansa’s eyes now. “You _saw_ us?”

“The night I came to get you. That Nymeria came to get you. I was watching through her eyes earlier, when Jon… when he kissed you.”

This makes Sansa furious. Her face flushes and she bares her teeth, a reaction that clearly takes her ‘captor’ by surprise. Then she brings herself to her feet and, even in a grown man’s body, Arya cowers beneath her vast, looming height. 

“You have got to be joking. First Bran, and now you?”

“What are you talking about?”

“I’m talking about all my siblings deciding they can just spy on me! Just because you all have creepy magic powers now, it does NOT give you the right to invade my privacy!” She is heaving with rage now. Arya stands and pushes back.

“I wasn’t spying on you! I was looking for you. It isn’t my fault I happen to show up when you two were–”

“Oh, don’t give me that horseshit.” Sansa curse causes Arya’s words to fall quiet with shock. “You really expect me to believe you just showed up, with no intention of watching for a while first? Like you did with Jon?”

Arya scoffs. “Well you _would_ know that, seeing as you two spend so much time together now. Tell me do you at least stop fucking when you discuss me? Apparently, you do both so frequently it must be difficult to prevent an overlap.”

Sansa slaps the jowls of the bearded face yelling into hers. For a moment, she seems to regret it, but then her face hardens again and she scolds, “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Don’t I? Sansa, what in Seven Hells are you doing? And now your pregnant? Even I’m smarter than that. How could this have happened?” Her last question sounds desperate, although Sansa is sure Arya doesn’t really want the answer. Not right now, anyway.

Sansa begins to back away, tripping slightly over the soldier’s boots that Arya never put on. They shift heavily beneath her feet, and Sansa reaches out catch her balance but Arya grabs her arm and spins her around until her back is pressed against the soldier’s breastplate, her mouth now covered by the Bolton’s glove. She tries to struggle, to demand that Arya let her go, but her cries are muffled. Then Arya growls quietly into her ear as the Valyrian blade comes to rest against her neck.

“Sansa, shut up. Someone’s coming.”

Panic instantly chills the heat of Sansa’s blood and she gasps against the firm palm pressed to her lips. They wait quietly, Sansa trying to remember the plan, but everything is happening so fast that her mind starts to go blank. Then suddenly the chamber door bursts open with a force that nearly pulls it from its hinges. Standing beneath the archway is Jon.

“Sansa!” he gasps, the sight of her jolting every inch of him with a shocking, searing pain. 

The man holding her is heaving against her hair, his filthy hands touching her, a man already dead where he stands. He just doesn’t know it yet. A blade, shining steel, presses against her soft pale throat, and the front of her bodice is drenched in blood. For a moment, a horrifying, terrible moment, he fears she might already be dead too. 

But then she is in his arms, having gotten free somehow, though he never saw it. All he knows is that he is touching her, she was warm and breathing, she is saying his name. Jon holds her against him, closing his eyes for just a moment, before pulling her forehead against his. His hands caress her neck and shoulders, then fall to her stomach.

“Are you alright?” he demands quietly. Everything is still happening so fast. His body and mind are working only on instinct. 

“Yes,” she responds quickly, but before she can get another word out he whips her behind him and moves with the striking speed of a snake toward the man still holding his knife. 

Jon lunges for the blade, prepared to stop it with his heart if he has to, but the man flips it into his other hand with a swiftness and agility he shouldn’t possess. Before he can register what has happened, the man punches Jon in the throat and he stumbles back, choking and sputtering. He reaches for his sword but feels it slip from his belt, the Bolton soldier seeming to have grabbed it simultaneously with his strike to Jon’s neck. 

“Stop it, both of you!” Sansa screams, but Jon is ready to lunge again. Only the man is quicker, holding the sword out to Jon’s chest with a threat in his glare. “Arya! Knock it off.” 

His little sister’s name calls Jon’s attention back to Sansa but she is still addressing the man who’d disarmed him. His confusion causes just enough hesitation that when he turns back to look at the Bolton, he catches another fist to the jaw. 

“Arya!” Sansa yells again. Jon rushes for the man again. “Jon, don’t! That’s Arya. She’s wearing a face! Arya, show him!”

Jon fully expects to be struck with his own sword, but manages to pin the man back against the wall by his throat anyway. The realization that the soldier had not swung a deadly blow and Sansa’s words both finally reach him as his hand is about to squeeze the last breath from his victim. A strange smirk twists on the man’s mouth, and Jon drops his hold. 

Arya lifts off her mask at last, and just then Gendry bursts into the room. Jon looks at him, then to Sansa, then back to Arya before managing to ask, “What the hell happened?”

Shoving his sword at him, hilt first this time, Arya steps around Jon and goes to Gendry who pulls her into his arms. “I’m fine,” she tells her terrified lover while ignoring Jon’s inquiry altogether.

“We were attacked,” Sansa offers. “The Knights fought them off as best they could, but they were all killed. Arya took out the remaining Boltons.”

“She did?” Jon asks, astonished, as he looks back to Arya. She still won’t acknowledge him though. “And the face?”

“Arya thought it would be better in case more Bolton soldiers came. They’d think they already had me.”

Jon lets out a sigh, beginning to understand somewhat. Then he pulls Sansa to him again, holding her only by the shoulders now. “Are you sure you’re alright?”

Sansa nods, then Jon turns to Arya. “Arya, are you alright? Your throat, I–”

“I’m fine,” she states flatly. “But we need to get out of here. Did anyone else come with you?” She is speaking to Gendry.

“The Hound. He’s here somewhere.”

She moves to leave, seemingly intent on finding the last of their party to inform him it is time to depart, but Jon grabs her by the arm, pulling her attention back to him at last.

“Arya,” he begins. The question doesn’t need forming, for his eyes say it all. He wants to know why she didn’t stop him, why she provoked a fight rather than revealing herself. She yanks away from him though, and continues toward the door.

“Let’s go.” 

Sandor Clegane is standing at the foot of the staircase, clutching the gold he'd found on various dead soldiers, as the four confused and angry children make their descent. The girls are covered in blood, and though the boys clutch them protectively, Clegane gathers the ladies had done their own protecting before they’d arrived. 

As Arya approaches he gives a knowing glance around the room, acknowledging the carnage with a sniff. “This all your doing?” 

She simply glares at him and continues walking toward the gates while he chuckles at her back. They mount their horses, the five of them, and no one speaks until they’ve arrived back to Jon’s camp shortly before dawn.


	58. The Tower

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon breaches Winterfell and sees Ramsay.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi everyone. I'm back at it with this story so anyone who is still around, thank you for sticking with me. I apologize for the long hiatus. Season 8, as well as some life stuff, had me taking a break. However, I still have more planned and finally felt ready to get back to it. 
> 
> Also, forgive me if the battle stuff is unclear or unrealistic, but its not my strength so I'm not going to stress about it too much. I've included the map of Winterfell I referenced as I wrote, incase that is helpful.
> 
> Thanks again, and let me know what you all think.

***

“Take them to my tent,” Jon tells Gendry, then he turns to Arya as she opens her mouth and adds, “No arguments.” They are in his camp now and he is in command here. 

After giving the order, Jon heads for the war council tent and Clegane follows, deciding it’s probably safer to stick with the man leading a battle rather than the pissed off sisters covered in blood. As they enter they see Davos and Brynden speaking with urgency over the map.

“What happened with the Ironborn,” Jon asks before either man realizes he’s there. 

“Your sisters?” Brynden demands first, reminding Jon that he isn’t the only one there who cares for the young Starks. 

“They’re unharmed, but the Boltons did attack so I’ve brought them here.”

“We’ll double their guard,” Davos offers but Jon shakes his head slightly as though he is impatient with the topic of his sisters at the moment.

“I’m not sure it will matter, but yes.” Davos and Brynden both seem to want more detail as to what occurred in the attack, but Jon simply says, “We need to end this. The bastard dies today.” 

Jon turns his attention insistently toward the map of his home, finding the crypts with his fist and again ask, “What happened with the Ironborn?”

“We haven’t heard anything,” Brynden answers. “Theon got them into the tunnels of the Crypts, but there’s been no sign of a fight or any acknowledgement that the Boltons know they are there. So…”

“They’re either dead or hiding somewhere inside,” Jon finishes. “Prepare the attack as we discussed. I’m going to find Tormund.”

He leaves the two gray-bearded men and seeks out the Wildling. It is time. Regardless of whether the Ironborn have succeeded in breaching Winterfell, Jon needs to get inside. He needs this thing to be done. When he finds Tormund with ten other men in the Wolfswood he doesn’t need to say anything. He simply pulls on one of the patchwork cloaks that the Freefolk use to disguise themselves beyond the Wall, then takes the grappling hooks Tormund offers out to him. 

They make their way through the surrounding woods, a small party of savages, and Jon whispers, “Is he ready?”

Tormund grunts a confirmation and that is the last sound they make as they approach, moving like ghosts through the snow-covered trees, until they come upon a rocky hill just passed the edge of the forest. They can see the wall surrounding the Winterfell godswood from where they hide, blending perfectly into the rocky geography of the hill that matches the patchwork patterns of their cloaks. 

From the castle, it would be impossible to see the steady rise and fall of this mound that had never before been part of the landscape. But as Jon and his men crouch against it, the unmistakable rumble of a giant’s breath vibrates through them as the hill shifts. 

***

Arya glares at Gendry, arms crossed in front of her, as she stands brooding near the exit he’s blocking. Sansa is similarly brooding, sat on the end of Jon’s bedroll, only she is looking away from them both. 

“You don’t scare me,” he tells the small woman posturing before him. She narrows her glare and he nervously moves his eyes to her sister. “What happened back there? How did all those men die while you two lived? And how the hell did you manage to get cross with each other in the middle of it all?”

Sansa turns her head slightly to address him, though she still doesn’t look their way. “I told you, the Boltons attacked us. Arya killed them.”

“And that’s pissed ya off, has it?”

“Don’t speak to her like that,” Arya scolds him.

“Spare me your false defenses, sister. We all know you care nothing of honor, especially not mine.”

“Well I suppose that makes two of us then, doesn’t it? Three, if you count Jon.”

Sansa whips around where she sits, her eyes now fixed threateningly on her sister. She doesn’t stand, or gesture to move closer, but Gendry takes a step back anyway. 

He looks back and forth between the two girls who seem ready to kill each other. Taking a brave inhale of air, he squares his chest and demands, “Alright, what the hell is going on with you two?” 

There is a moment of silence, both girls still glaring, where Gendry starts to wonder whether he’s even been heard. But then they start, both hurling streams of pent up frustration and years-long resentments at each other in an incoherent explosion of simultaneous shrieks. He winces at the scene and before long he can’t take any more. 

“SHUT IT!” he booms with an authority his bastard status does not afford him. Still, both ladies quiet and look at him now with apparent submission so he decides to go with it. 

“You,” he points at Arya, “keep quiet.” Then he turns to Sansa. “You talk first. Tell me what happened.”

Sansa gathers herself a bit, straightening her shoulders in an attempt to quell the childish behavior her sister’s drawn out of her. She’d like to seem less childish that Arya, at least. 

“Arya has decided she can do whatever she likes, whenever she likes, including spy on other people just because she has some freakish abilities now, or whatever they are.”

“Do you mean the wolf thing or the face thing?” Gendry asks.

Sansa looks back at her sister’s furious and reddening grimace. “Well, ask her. Have you used a face to pry into my private life as well, yet?”

“I wasn’t prying, I was looking for you! It’s not my fault I found you with your own brother’s tongue down your throat!”

“Arya!” Sansa looks at Gendry’s shocked face with a panic that feeds her rage. “How dare you.”

“What? Do you think I keep secrets from him? I’m sorry you’ve decided to fuck up my family with this mess you’ve made, but Gendry is my… Well, he’s mine.”

Arya knows she isn’t make much sense but she can’t stop. “He’s the only one who’s been there for me, through all the shit you’ll never know about. Even when we were apart, he was the one I thought about to feel safe at night, not you. Not Jon. He’s my family now and he’s the only one I can talk to, so… yes,” she turns to Gendry and says, “Sansa’s fucking Jon.”

“ARYA!” 

Sansa gapes at her words, then looks to Gendry again who seems to be considering Arya’s comment with some sadness. She sighs, trying to keep her anger around her as armor despite the tears threatening to pool up. 

“You don’t understand,” she states coldly, though her voice betrays her pain. “The person I was before… the sister you knew is gone, Arya. They killed her in King’s Landing when they took our father’s head and replaced her with something else. Just a shell, barely even a human anymore. And whatever was left, well, _he_ took the rest.”

A tear falls down Sansa’s cheek, but she is so still she couldn’t have noticed. Arya flinches but only continues to stare at her in silence. 

“Jon was the only… I thought everyone was dead. You, Bran, Rickon, everyone. But when I heard Jon was Lord Commander at Castle Black, it was the one thing that gave me hope, the only reason I was able to escape. He brought me back to life.”

“He’s our _brother_ , Sansa.”

“He isn’t.” Sansa sniffs and wipes the liquid from her face at last, then looks at her sister’s incredulous eyes with an apology. “Bran told me, but he said it wasn’t safe to tell Jon until after we win back Winterfell. He doesn’t know yet.”

“What the hell are you talking about?”

“Jon’s real father was Rheagar Targaryen. His mother was Lyanna Stark. She made father swear to hide who Jon really was. She wanted to protect him from King Robert, so when she died father brought Jon home and claimed he was his bastard.” 

Arya’s mouth hangs open and Sansa sees the color drain from her face. Surprisingly, it is Gendry who responds.

“Holy shit,” he utters. “What are the bloody chances?”

Both women turn their questioning eyes to him and he looks at Arya again. “Think about it. All my life I thought I was just some bastard, and then find out I’m the son of a king. Now Jon is the son of a king, too. Shit, and my father killed his!”

Gendry continues to process as Sansa looks to Arya for clarification. “He’s Robert Baratheon’s son.”

“Oh,” Sansa acknowledges.

Arya can see her thinking through this new information and as Sansa opens her mouth to ask a question she cuts her off short. “Can we get back to fucking the point?” 

“What is the point, Arya? What do you want from me?”

“I want to know why.”

“Because I love him, okay?” Sansa is still crying but stays firm in her defense, reminding herself of all she’s done to get here. 

“I love him. I didn’t mean to, we didn’t plan it, but it happened. You don’t know because you weren’t there. You have no idea what we’ve been through, or what we are now. And no, it had nothing to do with finding out who Jon really is because it started long before that. If you want me to apologize, I won’t. I never thought I would come close to feeling this way, for anyone, ever! Not after everything…” Sansa stops herself and places her hand on her stomach, needing to catch her breath. 

Instantly, Arya’s expression changes from fury to fear. “What is it? Are you alright?” She moves to her sister and grabs her by the arms. “Is it the baby?”

Gendry gasps. “Baby? Oh fuck.”

“Shut up,” she snips at him then turns back to Sansa. “What do you need, what can I do?”

Sansa relaxes a little and her breath becomes steadier again. “I’m fine, I think.”

“You think??”

“This happened before, at White Harbor. I’m supposed to be resting, not getting over excited.” She lowers her hand from her stomach to the furs of Jon’s bed, closing her eyes for a moment.

“Shit, Sansa, I’m sorry. This is all my fault.”

Sansa laughs a little and looks at her sister’s terrified eyes. She places a hand softly on her face and reassures, “I’m fine, really. Besides, I think it was likely more to do with the raid of soldiers trying to kidnap me than your tantrum. I built a tolerance for that long ago.”

Arya keeps staring at her in fear a moment longer, but Sansa comforts her with a smile that eventually has her sighing with relief. Then she sits on the bed quietly beside her sister. 

“Why can’t you tell Jon?” she asks after a moment of peaceful resignation. 

“I’m not sure, but Bran insisted. He said we would all die, that Jon must take back Winterfell first.”

“But–”

“Look, don’t ask me to explain his magic because he seems to prefer not to explain it to me.” Sansa nudges her sister playfully. “Something you strange creatures all seem to have in common.”

Arya smiles a little and puts her arm around her sister’s waist. Sansa then stretches her arm around her shoulder and they rest their heads against each other. 

“We all have our own mysteries, Arya. What matters is that we are family, and we are together.” Sansa kisses her temple and adds quietly, “You know you can always talk to me, too.”

They sit together quietly a while longer until the sound of a wet sniff draws their attention to the large man still standing in the tent with them.

“Are you crying?” Arya teases Gendry.

“No, fuck off.” He sniffs again and his eyes search the canvas above him in an attempt to dry them out. Arya laughs at him and Sansa joins her. 

“Lay down,” she instructs, moving from the bed and pulling the furs back for Sansa. “Get some rest and we’ll be right outside.” 

Without argument, Sansa does as she’s told, removing her boots and settling herself down on Jon’s pallet. Arya tucks her in with a gentleness that is rare for the girl, and Sansa kisses her hand softly before she leaves.

Once she and Gendry are outside, he pulls her into an embrace that she tries to resist at first. But when he’s trapped her firmly against his chest, Arya finally releases her quiet tears.

***

Brynden gathers his forces on the field and gives the order to begin firing lit barrels of oil at the outer walls along the southern border of Winterfell. Explosions echo through the field, followed by screams of rage from within the castle and without. 

The Knights of the Vale charge up the right flank of the castle, aiming for East Gate, while the remaining armies flank left. Flaming arrows rain down on them from Bolton archers along the walls and the falcon riders raise their shields against the storm. They charge on, losing significant numbers as they continue to push through. The front line is only half way to the gate when it opens and a brigade of Bolton cavalry knights funnels out from the castle’s gaping mouth. 

Mounted soldiers battle each other as horses collide and arrows continue to fire down on them from above. The Knights of the Vale are slowly beating back the tide as they gain some ground, but it ravages them. The tail of the force tries to widen their perimeter out of arrow range, but the obstruction of Winter Town bordering this side of the castle keeps them close to the walls. The village is abandoned, but so many burning crosses line the streets and fields that it creates a fiery border, choking the knights back to ride along the walls. 

Jon watches carefully as the chaos erupts near the southern end of the Castle and there appears to be no obvious activity in the godswood. He nods his signal and the small band of Wildlings sprint toward the godswood, lining themselves along the wall at the northwest corner of the grounds. They stay clear of North Gate, aiming instead west for the towers that line the godswood walls heading toward Hunter’s Gate. 

Jon chooses the first tower that stands at the apex between the walls, as it is the only one that appears to be guarded. He sinks the grappling hook into the crook of the stone battlement just as he hurls a heavy rock in the opposite direction. The rock smashes into a wooden flank near the guard's head within the tower, chipping it with a loud crack that effectively masks the sound of Jon’s hook. The rock then falls down into the moat below that runs between the outer and inner walls of the castle and it takes the soldier’s attention with it as Jon begins to climb. When the guard turns back again, he notices Jon’s hook, along with his grunting breath, but as he moves to investigate a sword pushes over the stone and into his neck. 

Jon silently climbs into the tower and looks down at the moat on the other side of the wall. Then he looks out further and sees more archers on the inner wall, though not very many. A few soldiers are guarding the inside of North Gate, and there are others dotting the godswood on the ground. All of their attention, however, is turned toward the firestorm to the south, and none of these men seem eager to join the fight. Instead, they hold their posts, protecting a tree, with the likely plan of deserting out the rear gate should the rebel forces manage to breach the castle. Little do they know, it’s been breached already. 

Jon climbs down the tower and drops himself quietly into the moat, stripping his Wildling furs off in the water and letting them sink as he swims across to the inner wall. When he climbs up from the water, he’s in only his dark leathers again, needing to move in the shadows now and not the snow. 

The Wildlings make quick work of the men on the inner battlements along the western wall of the godswood, and it calls the attention of the men in the yard below. They begin firing arrows up at them, but that isn’t the concern. The real issue, Jon sees from his crouched stance on the wall as he slits another throat, is that some of the soldiers are now running toward the castle to report their position.

He readies himself to chase the men down, but before they reach the border of the godswood arrows coming flying at them from beyond the threshold, striking them dead. Jon keeps watching as more arrows pierce into the chests and throats of the remaining guards and then he looks around for Tormund. He’s standing fully upright and exposed as he peers out from the next tower to watch the same scene. 

As the threat is pushed back, Theon and a few of the Ironborn filter into the godswood as quickly and quietly as Jon and the Wildlings had been. Other than a few gurgling grunts, the flings of arrows are the only sounds in this sector of the war. 

Jon doesn’t call his attention, instead watching them as he and his men finish clearing the godswood. Theon then makes his way over to North Gate, unbarring it before collecting his men and disappearing from the godswood again. When all is done, Jon lights a torch and sends it falling over the edge of the wall and the Wildlings continue their journey toward Hunter’s Gate. 

From the way the sound carries, Jon can gather that his armies have begun to swell against the Eastern side of the Castle more than the West, but are not yet to the gates at either end. He runs, peeking over the walls to catch a glimpse of a massive gray monster barreling through the field in the same direction he is. The plan is to take out the men guarding the entrance from the walls while Wun Wun charges the outer gate. 

They are outnumbered five to one when they reach the archers, but they plow through them none the less, as none are expecting swords and axes to come racing toward them from the side. Jon and his men pick them off, but the attention of the thousands of soldiers inside the castle is now drawn up to where they are in full attack. Jon kills another, and then strains to hear the pitch of his men’s progression before pushing his sword through the last of them. He tries to look out into the field over the edge of the wall, but another arrow whips by his ear from below. 

He turns and looks down to see a man standing slightly elevated among the crowd on a mound of dirt. He’s holding a bow, his crazed blue eyes fixed on Jon with a penetrating glare of delight as he begins to knock again. 

Jon knows who he is without ever having laid eyes on the bastard before. And it is this instant recognition that makes him stand up tall, unflinching, as he stares down the tip of the monster’s arrow, his eye meeting Ramsay’s at the other end. 

He bares his teeth like a wolf, daring him to do it, and Ramsay twists his lips into a queer smile as he lowers his aim to Jon’s cock. Then, just the feathers escape his fingers, a deafening boom quakes the ground, sending the arrow into a wooden plank near Jon’s hip. Another boom calls Ramsay’s frustrated attention to the gate as the heavy wood begins to splinter and the iron hinges swell. Jon sees him pull a key from his pocket and rush toward the kennels.

A third boom has Ramsay yelling an order for his men to hold the gate, a moment that might’ve eerily reminded Jon of the last time a giant was forcing its way into his home. He might have even found it amusing that he’d been the one to arrange the attack this time. But the irony of it all doesn’t even register for Jon Snow, as he is no longer there. 

He’s not commanding an army anymore, or fighting these men, or even trying to reclaim his home. He isn’t a Wildling, or a bastard, or Lord Commander of anything, and he’s certainly not anybody’s king. He has no name, no face, and he is already dead. That’s what he is now in truth, that’s all he is – Death, and he has come for one man.

Ramsay retreats from his men and his hounds, leaving them to face the giant knocking at the gates, and Jon watches him with a thousand eyes in one. The bastard isn’t simply running away, he’s heading somewhere specific and Jon follows along the walls, mindlessly throwing off anyone in his way with his sword. Bodies fall in a trail behind him, but he’s barely broken a sweat when four men pile onto him at once. He rips them apart with terrifying ease, throwing them over the edge of the wall, but when they’re off him he’s lost sight of his target. It doesn’t matter, though. He knows where he’s going. 

A boom louder than the rest pulls Jon’s attention back to see Wun Wun burst through the Hunter’s Gate. In his focused rage, he only barely notices that his men are not pouring into the castle behind him, as they must not have reached the gate yet. Wun Wun faces hundreds of swords alone and Jon sees a pack of foaming hounds race toward the giant, attacking him all at once beneath the archway of the gate. 

A loud roar of men rises up from the Eastern side, and Jon can’t know if it is his men or the Boltons cheering a victory, but he doesn’t care. He’s nearly to the Broken Tower and as he looks out over the courtyard he sees Ramsay disappearing through the door at the base of it. He jumps down from the battlements once he reaches the armory and then sprints across the yard, with East Gate to one side of him and North Gate to the other. 

Jon cuts his way through Bolton’s but he’s slowed a bit as the soldiers start to realize who he’s chasing and swarm around him. But then a crash sends a stampede of Wildings through North Gate and the Boltons surrounding Jon are thinned out enough for him to keep moving. He hears a pained roar from the giant, but there is no time to concern himself with the creature now. The Wildlings run toward Wun Wun and Jon sprints in the opposite direction. 

Just as Jon reaches the Broken Tower, he looks up to see a sudden darkness forming, like a gathering of storm clouds only it is happening much to fast. The sky turns black above the tower, black as the night, and when Jon pulls open the door that black night rushes out from behind it, throwing him to his back against the ground. 

Waves rush over him, black waves, like smoke, only he can feel the waves beating him down with the force of a hurricane as he pushes against them with all his strength. No matter what he does he cannot pull himself to his feet, and he splinters his fingernails into the wood at the base of the door in a desperate grip. The force is so strong he knows if he lets go he will be swept across the yard, perhaps even tossed from the castle entirely by this gusting, whipping, shadow.

Then suddenly it is gone and the brightness of the day has returned. Jon gets to his feet, dizzy and swept, but the strange occurrence hasn’t yielded his mission so he continues. Sprinting up the staircase of the tower, Jon sees a red glow coming from the open chamber at the top. When he reaches the door, the sight that greets him from inside the room pulls him up short and he nearly retches on the floor where he stands.


	59. The Godswood

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ramsay captures Sansa and Jon finds her in the godswood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warning: Lots of disturbing violence in this chapter.

Jon is horrified by the images assaulting his eyes. He’s never seen such gore and can hardly believe that it’s real. The stench leaves no doubt of it, though. 

The room is dark except for a single brazier burning low in the corner opposite him. But the red glow dances over everything. Blood, he realizes. Every inch of the space is covered in blood. The twisted vines spilling in from the windows of the Broken Tower, the dust and filth layering the floor, the crumbling walls and abandoned debris, all are wet with it, glistening like rubies wherever the firelight licks. 

In the center of the room, with a beam of light spilling in from the window barely kissing her toes, the source of all this blood hangs suspended on a cross, naked and torn apart. Jon can hardly see as shadows cover most of her limp form, but as he inches closer to the body strapped up by her arms, legs dangling loose and twisted beneath, he hears her wheeze. 

The poor wretch is still breathing but Jon can’t imagine how. Her skin has been flayed in crude stripes all over her body, her arms and legs, her hips, her stomach, and chest. One of her breasts is gone, the jagged skin surrounding the wound giving evidence that it has most likely been torn off. 

Blood coats the long strings of her hair spilling down over her hidden face, making it look almost black. But when she shifts her hanging head slightly, a few strands catch the light, revealing that her hair is actually as white as snow. She is an old woman. Incredibly old. Her remaining skin grips her bones and sags down from her shackles, as if it were dripping off. How anyone, much less a frail old woman, could survive what’s been done to her is a miracle. 

The largest pool of blood drips down her legs from between her skeletal thighs. Jon sees it is fresh, still oozing down to form a black puddle on the floor. 

He wants to speak to her, somehow let her know he’s here, but everything is choked out of him now. Everything but his awareness of the heated breath coming from the dark alcove behind her. Jon won’t chase the bastard, he’ll wait for him to show himself because he knows that he will. Instead he keeps his eyes on the woman, examining her shackles now as he determines how best to loosen them without causing her anymore harm. The chains are cutting into her thin wrists nearly to the bone. 

“We have a visitor my lady.” The disgusting sour voice hits Jon like a poison and he’s unable to keep from imagining Sansa suffering the bile of this man’s cruel taunts. “Your hero has arrived.”

Jon sees the woman lift her head a little and he wants to tell her not to move, but then her hair shifts just enough for him to see her eyes. 

_Melisandre. But how?_

Jon’s eyes widen as they remain locked on hers and she tries to speak, but only a weak rasp escapes her lips before her head slumps forward again. 

“What did you do to her,” Jon growls into the dark, still not looking over to the creature in the corner. He hears him shift and then the bastard comes into the light. 

“A great many things,” he answers, but Jon still doesn’t look at him. He’s now studying the witch’s body more intensely. There is a gash across her ribs that he’d initially thought was a smaller section of flayed skin, but now sees it is a deep stab wound directly over her heart. At last he turns to look at the bastard. 

His face is nearly as grotesque as the Red Woman’s, pale and thin, with sunken eyes circled in black. Dark veins line the edge of his face and neck, and the blue of his eyes swims against crimson. The man is still holding his bow, but it isn’t raised. He’s just standing there smiling with the sick delight of a madman.

Jon tightens his grip around his sword and brings it up, but instead of plunging it into the man’s heart, he brings the hilt around and punches him in the face. His knuckles connect with Ramsay’s jaw and then the wolf’s head on his sword follows to crack the side of his head. He falls with a single blow and Jon sees blood pour out from his ear.

Laughter and screams of glee spill from the bastard’s mouth, but Jon can hardly hear him as the drum of his own pulse pounds against his skull. His blood is searing with the force of his rage as drops to his knees and closes both hands around his neck. But then the hiss of Sansa’s name coming through his lips forces Jon to listen. 

“Can’t… kill me now,” he sputters as Jon holds him by the throat. “She’s nearly here.” 

He gasps a little and the man in his grasp keeps laughing wildly against the choke. Jon glares at him, squeezing tighter, but he just continues to cackle and scream, “She’s coming, Sansa’s coming, she’s… commming… Ssssansaaa…”

Jon notices the sky darkening outside the window and throws the straining bastard from his grip. He runs to the window and sees the black cloud circling over the hill above his camp.

“If you kill me she dies,” Ramsay coughs. “Just ask your Red Woman.” 

The shadow pours down over the camp and Jon can no longer see it, but hundreds of his own soldiers are screaming and racing to where it’s landed. He turns back, seeing Ramsay still splayed out on the floor, and runs to Melisandre. 

“What’s happening?” he urges the woman who can barely speak. “Please!”

Melisandre cannot lift her head, only lobbing it slightly to the side, and raggedly wheezes, “Don’t kill him.” 

Just then a thunder of boots reaches the tower, rushing up the spiral staircase. Jon slowly picks up his sword and waits patiently by the door to cut down as many soldiers as he can before they take him. 

***

Arya stands at the entrance of Jon’s tent, eyes sharp for any movement in the trees. The firestorm rages on in the distance and the roar of battle echoes through the hills around the camp. She wonders how Sansa can sleep through all this, but each time she’s checked, her sister still seemed to be in a peaceful rest. 

Guards are stationed all around them in a tight but wide perimeter, and scattered throughout the camp as well. Gendry is making another patrol up to the hill to get a measure of things from what can be seen of the siege. Then a panic hits Arya’s gut a split second before it begins.

Suddenly, the woods around them are filled with howls. Wolves cry out in a chorus of warning so loud it drowns out the war around her. Two sets of feet race toward her at the same moment, but Nymeria gets to her first. She stops abruptly, inches from Arya’s face, and stares at her with a strange plea in her eyes. Then Gendry rushes right into her, grabbing her by the arms. 

“There’s a cloud, a shadow, something! It’s coming!” He’s panting and making no sense, but Arya looks back to Nymeria and then the wolf runs into Jon’s tent. She follows, only just seeing the sky darken as she enters the canvas. 

Sansa is still sleeping, and Gendry stumbles in behind Arya. Both draw their weapons as Nymeria bares her teeth, but before they can even shout to wake her, a shadow spills in from opening of the tent like a billow of smoke. Only it is thicker than smoke, oily even, and brings with it a rush that almost knocks the warriors to the floor. 

Arya screams her sisters name and lunges for her, but the shadow reaches to her first just as she opens her eyes. Sansa can only gasp before the shadow forms the shape of a hand that closes around her mouth. Arya reaches for her but the shadow throws her back against Nymeria with the sweep of another hand now formed. 

She watches, horrified, as Gendry pulls her to her feet. The shadow morphs into the form of a man with crazed eyes and a terrible smile, and when Sansa sees it her eyes bulge before fluttering shut again as her body falls limp in its black arms. Then they are gone. 

Arya and Gendry rush out of the tent, Nymeria whipping past them as they chase the shadow that is sweeping Sansa away with it. They can’t keep up as it travels through the air like a gusting wind, heading straight for the castle. 

Gendry jumps on a horse and then to his surprise Arya leaps onto it too, seating herself in front of him rather than mounting a horse of her own. He doesn’t have time to question her though as she pulls his arm around her waist and yells, “Don’t let me fall! Go!” 

They both kick the horse into a gallop and Arya’s head falls back limp against Gendry’s shoulder. He looks down to see her eyes have gone white and then looks back to the field before him and sees Nymeria charging toward the castle at an unimaginable pace, her pack racing behind her at a distance.

***

As he’s being dragged from the tower, Jon glimpses Ramsay on his feet again. He’s closing in on Melisandre and just as he loses sight of them Jon hears a chilling scream. 

Everything swirls around him as they carry him by the arms down the stone steps, then across the yard toward the godswood. East Gate has been penetrated, he sees Knights of the Vale on their feet battling Karstarks. 

He sees the Wildlings pummel the Umbers, but somehow the path from the Broken Tower to the godswood is nearly empty. He thinks he sees his forces overwhelming Bolton’s but of those that are left they seem to be doing whatever they can to keep this sector of the castle clear.

His captors throw a woolen hood over his head. Maybe it is to keep his men from realizing he’s been captured, but the chaos is so thick nobody had noticed anyway. Then, just as he feels himself being pushed forward again, he hears someone call his name. _Theon._ Something cracks the back of his head and then everything goes quiet.

***  
Tormund is on the wall above Hunter’s Gate, hysterical with rage, throwing any archers to the dirt below if they dare approach. He’s taken two arrows into the thick furs of his back, but if they’ve pierced his flesh it doesn’t seem to be slowing him down. Probably just the opposite. Wun Wun’s been killed and the pain of losing his friend fuels his savage cries as he continues to slaughter the Boltons.

Jon’s men are reaching the gate, but the giant’s body lays beneath the archway blocking their entry. Some try to climb over him to enter the castle but Tormund yells for them to go around to the North Gate, the clog making them sitting ducks for the archers. Ramsay’s dogs continue to rip at the flesh of Wun Wun’s face and then Tormund jumps down from the battlements to fight them himself.

Just then, Nymeria leaps over the body of the giant, landing with her jaws around the throat of the largest hound. She rips apart two more before one lands on her haunches, sinking its teeth into her hip. A deafening roar explodes out from her and then her pack is pouring in around her. They make quick work of the remaining hounds and then attack the rear guard of the Umbers, clearing a path as Nymeria charges toward the godswood. 

***

Gendry makes a wide path through the Wolfswood, aiming for the direction the wolves went while trying to bypass the sea of soldiers. Just as they start to approach the blocked entrance on the west, Arya sits up in his lap with a gasp and yells, “North Gate!” 

He kicks harder and Arya takes the reins, guiding their horse with grace through the crowd of foot soldiers pushing their way through the unguarded rear entrance to her home. When they reach the gate, Arya jumps from the horse before it even slows, catching herself in a tumble across the dirt before spinning up to her feet again. 

Gendry dismounts after bringing the horse to a halt, but she’s already pushed her way through the men, disappearing beyond the entrance. He sees Boltons charging toward him as he makes his way inside and gets caught up in the battle as they collide with the men pouring in through the gate. 

***

The echoes of war whispering in his ear start to rouse him first but when the hood is ripped from his head, blinding light punching his eyes, Jon is jolted back into full consciousness. With a sharp inhale, he jumps to his feet and looks around, blinking rapidly to focus his vision. 

He is in the godswood. Bolton soldiers are blocking the entrance and another is standing beside him holding the hood. Jon wonders why they do not restrain him physically, realizing his hands are not even bound. Instinct causes him to reach for his sword, though he can already feel its absence in the same way he can feel her presence somewhere deep within the woods. 

“Where’s Sansa,” he demands. One soldier at the gate smirks, but another seems cautious. It is the one beside him who answers, though.

“He’s got her at the weirwood,” the man informs him as if instructed to do so. 

Jon considers trying to take them out with just his fists, but as he looks down the path into the woods he sees more soldiers, armed and waiting, so he begins his trek toward the center of the yard to find her. He should run, he knows, but the fear of what he might find clenches his gut and slows him in his approach. 

_Ramsay needs me alive._

Her words echo in his ears and he tries to let it reassure him, but Jon knows too well that death is not what he fears for her now. The image of the Red Woman strapped to the cross invades his mind and he tries to push it away, but then Mance is there too, burning alive, and Jon remembers the moment he knew he’d have to give him the mercy of a quick death. Will he have to do the same for Sansa? Would he be able to do it if it comes to that? 

_What else did you see?_

_I didn’t see anything else, but I remember feeling safe and happy, happier than I’ve ever felt in my life. We were home and everything was okay, I know it._

He takes another step toward the center of the woods, Boltons lining his path like a wedding procession. Maybe what she’d seen was both of them already dead, happy together in the afterlife. Only, Jon knows there is nothing after life and so he quickens his pace. 

As the crimson leafs come into view, the surrounding guards widen away from the gathering beneath the tree. Ramsay is there, standing with his arms clasped behind his back in a proud stance, his twist smile stretching across his lips again as he sees Jon approach. 

Beside him is a shadow, dark as night in the form of the bastard himself with the same queer grin stretching its jaws. Wrapped in its smoky arms is Sansa, one black hand covering her mouth, the other clenched in a tight grip against her stomach. 

Jon tries to form a plan in his mind, but the sight of her has his heart pounding too hard for him to think. Her eyes are closed and he looks down to see her feet suspended slightly off the ground. 

“Surrender, bastard. Submit to me now and call off your men or she dies.” Jon keeps his eyes on Sansa, barely aware of Ramsay’s threat as he moves closer to the shadowy figure. “Your witch has such talents. I had to work hard to get her to reveal her magic. She held out for quite a while, but everyone talks eventually, even fire priestesses of the mighty _R’hllor…_ ”

Ramsay chuckles as he mocks the red god. “Once I learned what that dried up old cunt could do, that she could give me a son made of shadows which no arrow or blade could destroy, well I had a truly wonderful time filling her with my seed until he was born.” 

Ramsay moves beside Jon, admiring his wife held limp in the arms of his creation. He lifts a hand to Jon’s shoulder and whispers seductively in his ear, “Though it wasn’t nearly as much fun as filling your sweet sister.”

A moment of instinct nearly has him reaching up to break Ramsay’s wrist, but the shadow tightens around Sansa and it keeps him frozen under the grip. She begins to stir, a soft moan escaping through the oily fingers around her mouth. 

“Remember,” his cruel voice warns, “if I die, the shadow crushes her. Now, you have one option, bastard. Surrender, or the things I’ll make you watch me do to her will have you begging me to let you put a knife in her heart.”

Jon still doesn’t move, or speak, he just watches Sansa as every part of him tries to reach out to her from within. Then the hand on his shoulder slips away, and Ramsay moves toward her. 

Without thinking, Jon lunges for Ramsay but he is throw to his back by a sudden gusting force of darkness. When he lifts himself up again he sees that Sansa is now laying on the ground with Ramsay standing over her. The shadow is no longer in his form but instead circles around the tree in a protective wall with Jon on the outside and two of them barricaded within.

“No!” he cries out as Ramsay reaches down to her. “Don't!”

The sight of this monster touching her makes Jon want to retch again. Ramsay brushes his hand along the side of her face, almost gently, as Sansa begins to wake. Then, just as her eyes flutter open, she is pulled to her feet by Ramsay’s fist closing around her hair and Jon screams her name.

A look of sheer terror warps her face as she takes in what is happening and then she cries out as Ramsay tightens his grip. 

“My beloved wife,” he snarls into her ear, “I’ve missed you terribly.”

Tears begin to stream down Sansa’s face as she meets Jon’s eyes through the whirling shadow between them. Ramsay brings his free hand to her face and strokes her cheek with the back of his fingers, making her cringe. 

“Shhh,” he soothes cruelly before placing a soft kiss against her flowing tears. “Don’t cry lovely girl, you’re home now. Your brother’s brought you back to me and all will be as it was, just as soon as he kneels in surrender.”

She gasps and her eyes sharpen on Jon’s pleading back at her. “Don’t,” she begs, but not of Ramsay. “Jon, you can’t!” 

The man holding her laughs hysterically and then moves his mouth to her neck, kissing her again before sinking his teeth into her flesh. Sansa screams and so does Jon.

“Stop! Don’t hurt her, please!” Jon is gasping, pacing back and forth but with nowhere to go. His entire body trembles with the need to reach her. “I’ll do it, just let her go!”

Ramsay releases his bite and Jon can see blood staining his lips. He straightens, smiling again, and then drops Sansa from his grip, holding his hands in the air with a false gesture of cooperation. She clutches her neck and moves back from him, terrified and sobbing, but her eyes stay fixed on Jon with a plea. She shakes her head, silently telling him not to do it, but Jon doesn’t see any other way. 

“I’m waiting, bastard. Kneel before me and she’ll live. You won’t, but I imagine that doesn’t concern you as much.” 

“Jon, please! Do _not_ kneel!” 

Ramsay strikes her with the back of his hand and Sansa stumbles into the heart tree, gripping its face to keep from falling.

“Enough!” Jon takes a deep breath, staring a Sansa as she sobs, still shaking her head in protest. But then he moves his eyes to Ramsay who grins eagerly as he waits for Jon to submit. 

Then, just as Jon shifts one foot back, prepared to bend, a rumbling chorus fills the godswood. All three of them look around in confusion as the curdling screams of Bolton men rise up to be swallowed by the gnashing jaws of the wolves. Jon can feel the leader of the pack rising up behind him as she towers over his shoulder. Soon all the soldier’s cries are silenced and the rest of the wolves step up to reform the perimeter with their own bodies. 

Ramsay laughs again. “Do you think your beasts will make a difference, bastard? Go ahead, send them forth and see what happens.” 

Nymeria does, charging three wolves at the shadowy barrier only to see them tossed back like swatted flies against the surrounding trees, whelping as their spines crack on impact. 

“Even your giant wouldn’t be able to get through, if he were still alive that is, but my hounds finished him off before he ever got passed the gate.” Sansa presses herself back against the tree as Ramsay keeps his focus on tormenting Jon. “All of your soldiers and all of your savages combined can’t save your pretty sister, not even if they defeat my entire army which I’m certain they have all but done by now.”

An arrow flies toward Ramsay’s face, but it bounces off the shadow as if it had hit a stone wall. Jon looks around and sees Theon approaching, his bow held steady with another arrow already nocked. Several more Ironborn filter into the godswood behind him and join the wolves in surrounding the tree. The threat to Ramsay grows in its size but not its impact, for Jon knows now that the shadow whirling around them cannot be breached. He glances at Theon in a warning and it is returned with an expression of confusion. 

Yara steps beside her brother with her eyes fixed on the man she wants dead. “Archers!” she commands as her men lift their bows and Jon’s protest is swallowed as she orders them to loose. Arrows pelt the barrier in a flashing storm but they all ricochet off it just as Theon’s had and Ramsay’s cackling laughter fills the godswood again with mad hysterics. 

“You’re running out of time, bastard.” Ramsay moves back, lessening the distance between him and Sansa, while keeping his eyes fixed on Jon. “Shall I give you a demonstration of what your sister will endure if you don’t submit?” 

“No!” he screams as the man pulls a knife from his belt, but Ramsay does not reach for Sansa. Instead, the shadow extends toward Theon, forming a hand again, and before anyone can move it grabs Yara by the throat and pulls her into the circle. 

Theon rushes for her but is thrown to the ground where he cries and begs as Ramsay moves closer to him on the other side of the shadow, Yara now disarmed and grunting against his grip. He brings the knife to her temple and drags it down the side of her face in a deep cut as she screams. 

Jon looks on in horror, but then his eyes move back to Sansa as she suddenly calls out, “Bran! Please!” He looks around in confused panic, expecting to see his little brother somehow appearing in the godswood, but doesn’t find him. Instead, his eyes land on Nymeria’s as they flash white. He turns back to Sansa, Ramsay still focused on torturing Yara as Theon moans on the ground, and it distracts him enough that he doesn’t seem to have noticed Sansa’s cry for the brother that isn’t there. Sansa’s eyes flash white a moment later. 

Jon moves a little closer as he sees Sansa stand up tall, the expression on her face no longer fearful or crying, but only an empty stare. It is a stare he knows well, the stare of the Three Eyed Rave that pierces him now through her eyes. Jon watches in stunned silence as Sansa lifts her vacant eyes up into the branches of the weirwood high above her and holds out her hand. 

Jon follows her glance upward and only catches the faintest glimpse of Arya hidden in the tree before something falls into Sansa’s waiting palm. It is a knife, large and gleaming with the unmistakable sheen of Valyrian steel. He recognizes it as the same knife Arya held to Sansa’s throat as she wore the face of the fat Bolton at Castle Cerwyn. 

He watches in terror, furious with how things are unfolding. Why wouldn’t Arya just kill Ramsay? If the knife can fall down into the space, surely she could have as well. How could she expect Sansa to fight him herself? Even with Bran controlling her movements they are still no match for this monster. Besides, if she manages to do it won’t the shadow kill her anyway?

He starts to cry out in warning but then Jon sees an even more frightening scenario play out. Sansa doesn’t rush for the man holding her captive. Instead, she lifts the blade where she stands just as Ramsay turns back to see her. For a moment Jon believes she is going to kill herself, or rather that Bran is going to make her do it. He screams for her again as Ramsay shifts toward her, Yara still trapped in his grip with his blade positioned at her neck. But then Sansa slices the sharp steel across her other hand and slaps her bleeding palm to the face of the tree. 

At the same moment, Arya leaps down from the branches and lands on Ramsay’s back, collapsing him beneath her as they roll around in a tangled embrace. Jon sees Yara fall too, only Theon’s harrowing cry calls his attention to the blood now pouring from her opened throat. 

A rustling shifts the red leafs of the tree above them, and then the branches begin to sway, but the black shadow remains unchanged in its coil around them. Sansa’s hair lifts around her, then her skirts start to flap as she is surrounded by gusting wind that whips with a force so strong it pushes Arya back just as she attempts to sink her sword into her struggling victim. Arya grabs onto the tree next to her sister for balance and Ramsay tries to move toward them, but the wind shoves him back against the dead body of Yara. 

The storm whirls around the tree faster, but no breath of it reaches beyond the shadow barrier. Jon watches as the wind blows Sansa’s hair wildly around her face, drowning her in red, but she stands unflinching with her hand still pressed to the tree. Blood drips down the rough face, spilling into the crimson tears of sap that leak from its weeping eyes. 

Then the shadow seems to expand, moving toward Jon and the wolves, passing over Theon until he can reach out a hand and touch his sister. Bolton soldiers, bleeding and battered, start to charge into the godswood, meeting the Ironborn with swords as a battle breaks out around them. The wolves join the chaos but Jon stays transfixed on Sansa with Nymeria standing solidly at his side. 

The wind speeds up and then, as if stretched to its breaking point, the shadow dissolves into wisps of smoke that rise up above the tree before vanishing completely. Sansa collapses and Arya rushes to her. At the same moment, Jon charges toward Ramsay now retreating through his men toward the entrance of the yard. 

Theon pulls his sister into his arms, ignoring the fighting that closes in on him, but Nymeria rips apart a soldier that rushes toward them. The Boltons are nearly defeated and the direwolf keeps close to the tree ready to defend against anyone who comes too close to the two collapsed women and the siblings that cling to them. 

Jon chases Ramsay out of the godswood, seeing that he is heading for the crypts. He must have discovered the passages Theon used to enter the castle, hoping to now somehow escape back through them, and Jon nearly laughs at the absurdity of this man thinking he will live another day.

He makes it as far as the bottom of the steps leading down into the crypts before Jon leaps from the entrance, catching Ramsay’s blade in his thigh as he lands on top of him. He doesn’t even feel it. His hands close around the bastard’s throat and pull him to his feet, then he pummels him with his fist as he walks him back into the depths of the dark tunnel. 

_I’ll do it in front of my father,_ Jon thinks. _I’ll let him watch as the man who stole his home and his daughter begs for death._

As they approach the statue of Lord Eddard Stark, Jon grabs his neck with both hands and bashes his head into the man’s skull, throwing him to the ground with a crack. Dizzied, Ramsay rolls to his stomach and pushes his hands beneath him in an attempt to rise but Jon’s boot falls against the back of his head, crushing his face into the dirt. 

Rage fills every part of Jon, lighting his blood on fire, to the point his vision begins to blur in the already darkened space. It doesn’t hinder him though, as the rest of his senses grow heightened and his attention is called to the dagger in his thigh at last.

He rips it from his flesh and drops the weapon into the dirt, set on doing this with his own hands. Jon reaches down and grabs Ramsay by his collar, a weak gasp slipping from the man’s lips before Jon hurls him against the statue of his grandfather. Blood splatters across the stone king and Ramsay collapses back to the ground.

Then Jon hears sick laugher once again spewing from the bastard’s throat. “Killing me won’t undo what I’ve done to her,” he rasps and then Jon kicks him at full strength, the crack of his ribs echoing out as he is thrown onto his back. “I’m part of her now. I’ll always be inside of h–” 

Jon lands another stomp of his boot, crushing Ramsay’s balls, then he straddles him on the ground. He no longer feels anything, falling into a peaceful trance as his fists fall over and over, smashing his face into an unrecognizable swell of flesh. He doesn’t notice the ground beneath him start to quake, or the stones and dirt falling from the arches above, or the crack splitting through the stone skirts of a statue beside him. 

It isn’t until he hears the approaching boots of his men halted at the entrance of the crypts as a pile of stone caves it in, sealing the passage, that Jon finally stops. He looks down at the pile of meat beneath him, cloaked in even more darkness now that the tunnel has been blocked. 

Ramsay is beyond dead. Even without being able to see, Jon can feel the bone and brains and teeth spread out beneath his fists that have long since punched through to the dirt. 

His anger hasn’t waned. If anything, he’s furious at himself for not making it take longer. He crawls from the body and gropes along the still trembling ground until he finds the discarded dagger, then returns and plunges it over and over into the dead man’s corpse as he roars in crazed, vicious grunts. 

Jon continues to tear him apart, ripping flesh and leather from his torso, baring his bones until he crushes through his ribcage and closes his fingers around the unbeating heart. He crushes it in his grasp and he wrenches it from his chest, blood seeping through Jon’s armor and wool until he is soaked through to his skin. 

Something savage arouses in him them as he feels his mouth water and his lips pull back from his teeth. Then a large stone falls from the ceiling above him and bashes into the back of Jon’s head. He falls, and just as he loses consciousness he sees a flash of blue light coming from the depths of the trembling crypts beyond him.


	60. Home

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jon has a vision in the crypts.

“Darling, open your eyes.”

Jon feels a soft hand touching his cheek. Then her comforting voice comes to him again, so familiar yet lost to him long ago.

“Please my love, it’s time to open your eyes.” 

He shifts, turning his face into the touch, then he blinks as her eyes come into focus only a few inches from his own. The dark gray color matches his, her lips are smiling kindly at him and her hand strokes down, smoothing his hair lightly before she steps back. He can take in the full sight of her now. She looks like Arya, only a bit older, with long dark hair braided across her shoulder. 

“Where am I?” 

His voice is an echo. He looks down at himself, his hands are clean and unbruised, his clothes are free of stains and he is sitting so still against the stone wall that he cannot even feel his heart beating. Jon looks around to see he is still in the crypt, then sees the pile of flesh that once belonged to Ramsay Bolton. 

The memory of it all starts to come back to him, and as it does the ground rumbles beneath his feet. Then he sees the blue light flash again behind her in the distance. 

“Shhh…” the woman soothes, bringing her hand back to his face. “My sweet boy, you must remain calm for it is not yet time to wake the dragon.” He’s confused but finds her touch does settle him. “Can you do that for me, love? Can you keep yourself steady?”

He nods, still not understanding what she means, but something about her makes him want to do as she asks. The rumbling halts and the blue light dies back out.

“That’s good,” she smiles again, shifting her hand to his shoulder. “I’m so proud of you.”

Jon looks around again, and then he gasps as he sees another body lying next to the one he’d slaughtered. It is covered in blood and filth, unmoving. 

“What’s happening?” A crack in his voice reveals the fear he feels as he stares at his own body splayed out on the ground. “Am I…”

The woman moves beside him, taking his trembling hand into her own. “No, my darling.” She squeezes his hand gently until he pulls his eyes from the bodies and looks at her again. “You’re not dead, but you know that.”

He feels as if he wants to cry, but no tears can fall just yet. “Who are you?”

“You know that, too.” 

“Lyanna?” 

She nods and continues smiling warmly at him, filling him with something he cannot name. Then he feels his heart swell inside of his chest and he does know. 

“Are you…” But it isn’t a question any longer. “You’re my mother.”

Her eyes fill with tears as she nods again, and then her arms wrap around him as she pulls him into an embrace like nothing he’s ever known. Jon pulls her closer and sobs against her chest, allowing the tears to fall now as she strokes her gentle hand through his hair. He still doesn’t understand, but it doesn’t matter just now. All he wants is to be in her arms. 

When he’s emptied himself of his cries, she relaxes her arms and he sits up. Her loving fingers wipe the liquid from his face and she places a kiss on his cheek. Then he looks back at what he’s done, with his own brutal image beside it. 

“Am I a monster?” he asks her quietly. 

“No,” she promises, laughing softly at the question, and somehow he believes her. “You are so special my sweet boy, so brave and strong, but you must be careful.”

“I don’t understand.”

She takes his hand in hers again and he looks back into her eyes. “You have a power in you, and that power will do such magnificent things.” She looks back at the bodies on the ground with kindness. “But this fight is done and it isn’t yet time.”

“The dragon?” he asks weakly. 

“Yes, it’s why Bran couldn’t tell you before. That power is needed for the Great War still to come, but not now.”

Jon moves his eyes slowly to where he saw the blue light, but only darkness lay there now. Then his gaze shifts to the stone visage of Eddard Stark. “But if you’re my mother, then…” 

Lyanna presses her hand to Jon’s heart and he feels something hard push against his skin. “You already know.”

Jon gasps as his eyes fly open in a wide, searching panic. He sits up, his head throbbing, and then sees the blood surrounding him, soaking his clothes. When the remains of Ramsay come into view he backs away, trying to pull himself to his feet but stumbles as he vomits. Shaking his head, he tries to focus, spitting and coughing to clear his throat. 

He feels hot, too hot, and he begins to rip his armor away from his body. Finally, he manages to get to his feet, though he sways a little still. He pulls off his gloves, needing the blood off his hands, then wipes his face with the sleeve of his jerkin. He pushes his bare fingers through his sweat-drenched hair, but when he pulls his hand back it is coated in blood again. 

He sighs, clenching his fist as he tries to clear his head, then remembers he needs to find a way out of here before everyone assumes he is dead. He examines the state of the cave-in, then looks around for a candle as he wipes his soiled hand on his chest. Something hard brushes his fingers and suddenly the words of her ghost sound in his ears. _You already know…_

His fumbles at the laces of his jerkin, pulling them apart as quickly as he can, then takes it off and presses his fingers to the lining inside. Sansa’s stitching surrounds something small and hard, cushioned with extra filling. 

Jon tugs at the thread, pulling it loose, then fishes his fingers into the hole he’s made in the lining and he pulls out the ruby of Rhaegar Targaryen. All of it comes into sharp focus, all of it, all at once, only it comes in reverse. 

_It isn’t time yet. My darling, you must remain calm for it is not yet time to wake the dragon._

_I saw something, something he doesn’t want me to tell you._

_You said you would trust me, Jon. I told you that it was destined. I told you that you would understand soon. I told you not to abandon-_

“I haven’t!” Jon’s voice echoes around the crypt and he opens his clenched fist, staring at the jewel indenting his palm. He recalls the story Howland Reed had told him then.

_Rhaegar didn’t kidnap her. They’d planned it together, she confessed it to me before she disappeared and made me promise to keep her confidence. They were in love. I was there the day Ned found her. When I’d reached them she was already gone, having died in his arms._

His father’s face draws his eyes up. Only, that isn’t his father.

He moves forward without feeling his feet until he is standing before the tomb of the man he’d spent his entirely life wanting to be. Jon stares at the stone face, searching, willing his ghost to come and speak to him as he’s done so often before in his dreams. Then he presses his eye closed, like a child, trying to wish hard enough to make him appear. 

He can hardly even remember what he looked like anymore, not really. The stone image of him was carved by someone who didn’t know his face and the figure in his dreams is always warped with death and fury. Jon releases a weary sigh and leans forward, resting his head against the hard form. Oh, what he would give to have him here now, to tell him what to do. 

_You might not have my name, but you have my blood._

_Is my mother alive? Doesn’t she know about me? Where I am, where I’m going? Does she care?_

_The next time we see each other, we’ll talk about your mother. I promise._

 

Jon hears someone calling his name and stands back from the statue, giving him one last look, then he places the ruby in the upturned palm of his mother and makes his way back to the collapsed entrance of the crypt. 

It is Gendry calling for him and as he gets closer Jon sees that he and Tormund have shifted enough rock to make a small gap through which they are peering at him. 

“Are you alright?” Gendry calls down.

“Yes,” Jon croaks back. “Sansa? Arya?” 

“They’re okay, we need to get you out.” 

Jon climbs up the pile of stone and pulls back loose rubble from his side. When they’ve made a large enough space, Tormund reaches in to grab his arm and lifts him from the cavern in a rough jerk, jagged debris ripping his tunic as he’s scraped along the rock.

He catches his breath as Tormund steadies him, but then immediately demands that he be taken to Sansa. 

***

Jon approaches the guest chamber he’s never been in before. It’s the room Princess Myrcella had been given when King Robert came to visit Winterfell. Large enough for royal guests with its own private solar, but not often used. He tries not to think about that time, and in truth it isn’t difficult. 

Every step he’d taken since entering the castle had brought some distant memory to mind, but each time one would emerge it faded back just as quickly, cast out by his need to reach her and see for himself that she’s alright. 

He lifts his hand to knock, but then decides to just gently open the door with as little noise as he can in case she is sleeping. When he looks in, he finds that she is. 

Sansa is tucked beneath heavy furs and he can only see red wisps of her hair peeking out from beneath them. Next to her on the bed, Arya sits back against the headboard, stroking those wisps lightly as she watches her sister sleep. She looks up at Jon as he steps halfway into the room. 

“Are you alright?” he whispers and she nods. Then she looks down at Sansa, touching her hair once more before standing from the bed and moving to Jon.

“We should let her sleep.” 

Jon glances over at his love, breathing deeply and not stirring in the slightest from the whispers. Arya touches his arm in a reassurance that Sansa is okay, then they step into the solar adjoining the room.

“I thought you were dead,” she tells him as she moves toward the chairs in front of a hearth.  
Before she can sit though, Jon pulls her into a tight embrace, crushing her to his chest. She sighs into him, still a little rigid, but he holds her until she starts to cry. Then he keeps holding her until she’s done. 

Finally, she pushes him off of her playfully saying, “You smell terrible, Jon.” 

He smiles a little, trying to laugh, but it doesn’t quite come out. Arya sits by the fire and Jon pours her a mug of ale, along with one for himself, and then joins her. 

They both quietly sip their drinks for a while, not knowing what to say or where to begin. Jon wants to ask what happened, but isn’t sure he understand the question himself so he doesn’t. Arya wants to tell him what she saw, but she doesn’t want the image of that shadow thing in her mind just now. So, they sit quietly for a while longer. Then, at the exact same moment, they both speak.

“Jon, I –” “Arya, there’s –”

They smile at each other in strange apology, and then Arya insists, “You first.”

Jon sighs, looking down at his cup. “I need to tell you something, but I’m not sure how to… I don’t even know if…” He sighs again, trying to find the words. “I can’t explain it all, not without sounding like a madman, so I’m sorry if it doesn’t make any sense.”

“It’s alright, Jon. Whatever it is, you can tell me.” 

He looks up at her, seeing the eyes of his sister staring back at him with a fierce brutality, one he’s known since the day she was born and it comforts him. They are his eyes, and his mother’s eyes, too. So, he tells her, rambling at times and doubting himself the whole way through, but he tells her all that he can remember from the moment he’d entered into the crypts. 

He describes what he’d done to Ramsay, he tells her what he recalls of the collapse and the blue light he’d seen before he was knocked out. Then, with his voice barely above a whisper, he tells her about seeing Lyanna Stark and everything that she’d told him. 

“It seemed so real,” he says with a quiver in his voice, almost sounding like a little boy. “I felt it when she held me, and I just… _knew_.” 

Arya reaches over and covers his hand with hers. He looks down at her touch, turning his hand over to lace her fingers with his, then lifts his eyes back to her and asks shyly, “Do you believe me?” 

She sighs and nods honestly, deciding not to tell him just now that she already knew. If she did, she’d have to tell him Sansa told her and that wasn’t her place. So, she asks him about the dragon. 

“What do you think it means?” Arya is no stranger to magic, mystery, or the inexplicable. Destiny is a different matter, though. 

“I don’t know,” he confesses. “But I do know the Great War is coming, and I know something happened down there… something I made happen. I wish Bran were here. Maybe he could explain it to me.”

“I asked the Maester to send him a raven after he’d finished tending to Sansa, to let him know it was over.”

Jon laughs a little, and Arya looks at him oddly for a moment until she realizes what he found so funny. Bran didn’t need ravens, he is one now. 

“I keep forgetting,” she blushes. “It must be strange to see him now.” 

He nods, but doesn’t elaborate, instead deciding to change the subject. “What was it you were going to say.”

Arya shakes her head a little, letting go of Jon’s hand, as she takes another long drink ale. “It’s not important.”

Her voice sounds nervous all of a sudden and Jon leans back in his chair, watching her. “Arya, what is it?” 

She glances at him, only for a blink, then she stares back down into her cup. Her face scrunches as if it pains her to say the words, but then she just blurts it out quickly to get it over with. “I know about you and Sansa, and the baby.” 

Silence is all that meets her, a heavy silence, and finally she looks up at him again. Jon’s face is white, he is as still as the statues in the crypts, and when her eyes take hold of his she thinks he might even be angry. Then he places his mug on the floor and leans forward, dropping his head into his hands. 

“It’s alright,” she whispers. “I’m not upset about it, not anymore.”

“She told you.” His voice is strained, but not because he feels betrayed. A part of him knew this would happen eventually, he just hoped it would wait until they could all discuss it together. 

“Well, yes, but only after I confronted her with it.” Jon looked up at her swiftly, confused, and she crunches her face again, only this time she seems guilty. “I didn’t mean to pry, and before you lecture me on privacy you can save it. Sansa already did that enough for the both of you.”

“Arya, what are you talking about?” He was staring at her now, scrutinizing every flinch of movement in her face. 

She is tempted to put on a mask, or at least utilize her skills of deception, but she’s tired of all the secrets, all the lies. She just wants to be a family again, and families are messy but they get on with it and love each other anyway.

“Okay, but before I tell you just remember, you’re the one fucking your sister.”

“Arya!” 

She’d hoped it would lighten the mood a bit, but he doesn’t seem amused. So, she tells him about seeing them kiss through Nymeria’s eyes, then quickly adds that she knows it was wrong and apologizes in rapid, repeated succession, the same way she’d done with her father on the King’s Road after hiding from the fallout of Nymeria’s attack on Joffrey. 

Jon does laugh then, pushing a rough hand through her hair until she swats him away. She scowls at him, but then asks for the truth. “You’re not angry with me?” 

He smiles kindly, reassuring her, and answers, “No, I’m not angry.” 

Jon looks so like her father in that moment, nearly making her want to curl up in his lap while he tells her a story. But she isn’t a little girl anymore, and he isn’t her father. 

“Sansa’s been through so much,” he begins, and Arya looks down at her cup again, feeling ashamed. “So have you, we all have. We need to trust each other now, and sometimes that means waiting for someone to be ready before you get to learn their secrets. She loves you, though. I know that.” 

“She loves you, too, Jon.” Arya lifts the corner of her mouth in half a smile, but still doesn’t look at him. “I know what you did for her, how you’ve helped her. It will take some time for me to get used to it, I guess. But…” 

“But?”

She sighs, sitting back in her chair and looking as if she is trying to make sense of it herself. “I don’t know. It’s strange, but maybe what upset me the most wasn’t that it happened. I think I just felt… jealous.” 

Arya glances as him long enough to see the look of pity on his face, so she deflects. “Don’t get the wrong idea, Jon. I’m not saying I want to fuck you.” He releases an involuntary blurt of laughter and she rolls her eyes, but smiles and then continues to explain. 

“When I came back, I think part of me was hoping that things would be as they were. It’s stupid, I know. I just… it was always you and me, the outcasts. And I’m not saying I hoped you two hated each other or anything, but the way you talked about her, then the way she talked about you, and the way you both seemed to be talking about me to each other. I don’t know, Jon. Like I said, it’s stupid.” 

“It’s not stupid, Arya.” His voice is so sincere that Arya is able to truly look into his eyes again. “I understand.”

“You do?”

Jon nods. “It took a while, you know. We were both such different people when she showed up at Castle Black, like strangers. Things were complicated for us, for a really long time. I don’t think either of us even knew who we were anymore, much less each other.”

He stands and walks to the table to refill his cup. “When we left the North, I think there was a part of both of us that wanted to just start over, become something new and forget the past forever. I know I did, anyway.”

“So what changed?” 

Jon watches her stand and then walk closer to him. He takes her cup, refilling it too, and as he hands it back answers, “You.”

“Me?” 

He smiles and sits at the table, but she continues to stand. “When we were on the Quiet Isle, we didn’t really have much of a plan, certainly not one that included taking back the North. Sansa wanted to go to the Eyrie, thinking it was our best chance for safety at least, but I didn’t really care one way or the other to be honest. Mostly I just felt like I was still dead. If anything, whatever dangerous situation I could find to take me back there seemed like a fine idea to me.”

Arya shifts uncomfortably at his words, but he offers her another reassuring smile. “Then we found out you were still alive and everything changed. Sansa wanted to fight, to find you and go home. And so did I.” 

Tears well up in her eyes, but she hides it by emptying her cup in one go. Then she moves around the table and wraps her arms around Jon, pulling him in tight as he hugs her back. When she’s released him again, she kisses his cheek and says, “I’m going to bed.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in the morning.”

Arya touches his face softly for a moment and looks at him. “I love you, Jon. Thank you for bringing us home.” Before he can respond she makes her way to the door, then turns back to him again and adds, “I’ll have someone draw you bath. I meant what I said, you smell terrible.”

He laughs again, and when she’s gone he takes a moment to appreciate that’s how she’d left him, with smile on his face and warmth in his heart. 

***

Jon enters Sansa’s bedchamber again shortly before dawn. 

He knew he wouldn’t be able to sleep so he’d just stayed close, occupying himself in the solar while trying to make as little noise as possible. She needed rest and he was grateful she’d been able to find it so he kept his own restlessness away. Still, he found himself checking on her periodically throughout the night, poking his head in just enough to hear her breathing deeply and undisturbed. Then, just as the night was nearly done, Jon couldn’t bare the separation any longer. 

Clean, shoeless, and wearing only a fresh tunic and soft breeches, Jon makes his way to her bed as quietly as he can. He looks down at her sleeping form, resting on her side with her back toward him, and all he wants is to slip his arm around her and pull her close. 

Slowly, he pulls back the furs and tries to lay down without moving too much of the mattress beneath her. But as soon as he settles onto his back she turns toward him, draping her bandaged hand across his chest

 

and pressing her body to his side. She’s still asleep, and it makes his heart flutter that she can feel him beside her anyway. 

He gently kisses the top of her head, and then uses one light finger to brush her hair back so that he can see her face. Jon flinches and nearly gasps as the bruise on her cheek is exposed. The memory of his hands on her floods back to him and it takes great effort to keep still and calm in her arms. 

He closes his eyes for a moment to steady himself, then pulls her hair back the rest of the way, revealing her neck and the mark he’d left on her in the shape of his teeth. Suddenly, Jon no longer regrets how far he took things when he’d killed the man. 

“It’s over now,” she mumbles into his chest. He looks at her face, but her eyes are still closed, then her delicate fingers brush over his heart and she whispers, “He’s gone. Just get some sleep.”

Jon takes a deep breath and turns toward her, wrapping her in his arms, and then a blissfully dreamless sleep finds him at last.


	61. Recovery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Starks begin their recovery efforts in the days following the war.

“Lady Stark, the pyres have all been built and the bodies are prepared for burning.”

“Thank you, Lord Royce. I will inform my sister.”

“Very good, my lady, and if it please, do convey my sincerest wish that she returns to good health very soon.”

Gendry can see Arya’s irritation growing by the word. It’s bad enough she has to endure being referred to as Lady Stark, but the constant and poorly concealed efforts of the other lords to pry into Sansa’s absence is becoming intolerable.

“As I have said, my lord, Lady Sansa’s health is of no concern. She is simply resting, which I think is understandable considering all she’s suffered, wouldn’t you agree?” The bite in her voice is unmistakable.

“Of course, my lady.” Lord Royce bows his head apologetically and exits the great hall.

Arya sighs, turning to Gendry who has not left her side. “Who’s next?”

“That was the last one for now, Lady Stark.” Gendry smirks at her but dodges her swing at him before she can connect, grabbing her wrist instead and using it to pull her closer.

“Get off,” she scolds him, but the irritation is only superficial. 

Arya knows how wonderful he’s been, keeping her company, helping to organize and enforce her orders, as well as lightening her mood wherever possible. So, when he tries to kiss her, she lets him. They haven’t had much alone time since before the siege, and the moment of closeness is nice.

“Are you hungry?” he asks when their kiss is interrupted by the rumble of her gut. She shrugs, looking back at the stacks of paperwork in front of her. “Of course, you are. Let’s go find you some food.”

Gendry stands and holds his hand out for her.

“I should let Jon know the pyres are finished.”

“Aye, and you will, but after you eat. Come on, now. Don’t make me drag you to the kitchen and force bread down your throat.”

Arya stands without taking his hand, and smirks at him as she walks past. “Is that any way to speak to the Lady of Winterfell?” 

She lets out a yelp as he grabs her from behind, his fingers twisting against her ribs until she submits in a fit of expletives. 

“I thought you weren’t a lady,” he growls into her ear as he pulls her against his chest. She tries to elbow him but he’s got her arms pinned to her sides and then he presses his ever-ready hardness against her ass. 

“Oh, don’t worry. You never have to be a lady for me. I prefer gutter rats anyway, or a saucy little tavern wench, maybe. Perhaps even a fancy painted whore fit for a king? What do you think? Something for my nameday?” 

Gendry is only teasing, but she stills in his arms as if he’s given her an idea. But then he pushes her forward a bit, and commands, “Food, Arya. Now.” 

He takes her to the kitchens where they raid the pantries like children in the middle of the night. Gendry makes a few quips about her fancy upbringing, and she hits back by mocking the kitchen wench comment, causing him to throw a chunk of bread at her face. She dodges it expertly, of course.

Arya stuffs nearly a whole brick of cheese into her mouth when he catches her off guard, perhaps timing it just so. 

“I’m really impressed with you, ya know?” He pops another grape into his mouth casually and continues as if this were common fact. “I mean, I always am. But the way you’ve just taken on so much in these last few days, when I know it’s the last thing you want to be doing… I dunno. It’s really something.”

Arya looks down, blushing as she chews the cheese more slowly in an attempt to stall her response. “Sansa,” she mutters with a half-full mouth, “she’s always been better at this stuff.”

“You don’t give yourself enough credit.” It’s another statement of fact, with no judgement or requirement in the words.

He sees her swallow the remaining contents of her snack, and then a look of sorrow falls over her eyes. 

“She’s been through so much,” she whispers, and Gendry flinches at how afraid she sounds. He’s never heard her sound like that before. “I don’t know what I’d have done if he…”

“He didn’t,” he interrupts. Gendry wraps his arms around her then, pulling her face to his chest. “She’s alright, Arya. You both are. Everything’s going to be alright.”

She isn’t sure she believes him but she accepts the comfort, pressing her tears into his tunic as he softly rubs her back. 

***

Sansa’s slept for nearly three days straight. For the most part Jon lets her be, though he does make her sit up and drink water a few times a day, as well as try and get her to consume some food. But then she falls directly back into a deep and unmoving sleep. 

The maester assured him it was safe for her to rest as much as she wants. Jon had revealed to him that she was pregnant, and after examining her and finding small spots of blood, he’d insisted on it. 

Maester Wolkan had been in the service of Winterfell during the Boltons’ time there, which gave Jon some reservations about the man at first. But when he asks for discretion regarding Lady Sansa’s condition, the maester reminds Jon that he’s sworn to obey what is required of him by the ruler of the house, no matter his personal feelings on their affairs. Then he adds, without any solicitation, that he’s quite happy for the opportunity to be in the practice of true healing and care once again, especially for Lady Sansa. 

It occurs to Jon, as he watches the maester perform his exam, that this isn’t his first introduction to Sansa’s intimate needs, and that he’s likely been witness to some of her gravest injuries. The thought angers him, but that anger is easier to quell now that he’s held the bastard’s dead heart in his own hands. 

Still, Maester Wolkan seems to genuinely care for Sansa’s wellbeing, and not just because it is his duty. He elaborates on his time with the Boltons just enough for Jon to understand he’s filled with guilt over the things he’d been made to observe and comply with while they held Winterfell. 

“I tried to do what I could for her then,” he woefully admits, “if ever she was allowed out of her chamber or I allowed in. But these allowances were quite sparse, I’m sad to say, and it was never, _never_ enough.”

Jon thanks him as he leaves, brushing off the healer’s request to have a look at his hands, and instead asks that when he returns for his next check of her that he bring an update on how the wounded soldiers are faring. 

Later, when Sansa finally wakes properly, she looks around for a moment wondering where she is. The room is familiar but only distantly. It is as if she’d been in a long, winding dream and she can’t remember how much of it was real. 

As she sits up she feels a sharp pain stretching the skin on her neck. She touches the spot with her fingers and feels the scabs that have formed there in the crescent shape of teeth. 

“Does it hurt?” 

Sansa startles a bit and then turns to see Jon sitting in a chair by the fire. The memory of it all starts to rush at her and she pulls her hand away, steadying herself as she tries to slow her mind.

“Jon,” she croaks, her throat dry and hoarse. 

He stands and pours her some water, then sits on the edge of the bed as he hands it to her. Sansa drinks it all, more dehydrated than she’d realized, and then places the empty cup on the table next to the bed. 

With a slightly stronger whisper she asks, “What happened?”

Jon doesn’t know where to begin. In fact, he’d hoped to ask her the same thing, eventually. After all, it was she who’d defeated that thing, though he still doesn’t understand how. Then he sees her look down at the bandage on her hand where she’d sliced it open before pressing her blood to the weirwood tree. 

“How much do you remember?” He is gentle, as if trying not to scare her, but it doesn’t work.

“I don’t know, I… I remember a shadow, and that he had me.” Her eyes start to glaze over as she ghosts her fingers up to her neck again, then her cheek. 

“He’s gone now, Sansa. You stopped him.”

“I did?” This confuses her and she stares back at her wounded hand once again.

“I’m not sure how. You called out for Bran, and then… honestly, Sansa I really don’t know what happened.” 

She seems to be trying to recall the event for herself. Then suddenly, she reaches for the empty space on the bed beside her where she’d last felt her sister’s body.

“Arya, she was here.”

“She’s alright. Gendry’s been staying with her while she takes appointments and sees to things around the castle, but she’s been keeping me informed.” 

This appears to confuse her more than anything thus far. “Arya?”

Jon smiles a little and nods. “She’s actually doing quite well. I spoke with her not long ago. She said the funeral pyres have been finished. There’s to be a ceremony later this evening to honor the fallen if you feel well enough to attend, but it’s important you don’t push yourself.” 

Something occurs to her then. “Theon, is… did he…” 

Jon takes a breath, looking down as he takes her good hand. “He’s alive,” he whispers, but his careful tone is not very reassuring. 

“Jon, what is it?” 

“His sister, Yara.” He squeezes her hand. “Sansa, she was killed.” 

The memory of Ramsay pulling Yara into the shadowy circle comes back to her then, the way she screamed as he ran his blade down her face, Theon on his knees begging him to let her go. Her lip trembles and tears start to fall down her face.

“I need to see him,” she sniffs, moving as if to leave the bed, but Jon stops her with both hands gently holding her arms. 

“Sansa, I think you should stay in bed for now. The maester…” 

Her eyes bulge and her hand instinctively falls over her stomach. “Jon, did I –”

“No, everything is fine,” he promises quickly. “But Maester Wolkan said there was a little more bleeding after, well… it’s stopped now, but it’s still important that you rest. If you’d like I can go find Theon and bring him here, but you need to try and keep yourself from getting upset.”

Sansa brushes her tears away, frustrated. “How am I supposed to do that?”

Jon takes her hand again and kisses her fingers. “We’re home now, my love, just as you said we would be. Everything that’s come before was pure hell, I know, but we’re home. Please, Sansa. You must be gentle with yourself now. It’s your turn to be looked after, alright? Our little one needs you to be well.”

She sighs, allowing his words to settle in. The last few days have been a complete haze. Mostly she’s been unconscious, but now she looks around and really takes in the awareness that she is home. 

It was a waking nightmare the last time she was here, a perversion of the place she’d once felt the safest. To spend so long in strange places with strange people, longing for the respite of Winterfell, only to come back and have even that stolen away, she’d nearly lost all hope. 

Sansa looks at Jon again, his tired eyes searching her for something he recognizes. Then he smiles and places his hand over hers where it rests on her belly, and her heart fills with life once again, just as it had when they’d found each other in Castle Black. 

“Sansa,” he says slowly. “There’s something else I need to tell you.” 

Her eyes flinch with fear, but her body remains calm with his fingers stroking her hand. She knows he’s going to treat her like a fragile piece of glass if she doesn’t show him she can keep from getting upset, so she takes a deep breath and sits up a little more as she waits for Jon to continue.

“I know,” he begins, but then falters a little with some strange hesitation. 

It’s as if he hadn’t considered how exactly to speak the words he’d been running through his mind over that past few days. Suddenly, he’s unsure about all of it and so he says the only part that makes any sense. 

“I know who my mother is.”

Sansa’s lips fall open as she inhales a shallow breath. “You do?”

Jon nods, but then shakes his head too. “I know it’s going to sound mad, but when I was down in the crypts I… saw her. She came to me, I guess while I was knocked out. It seemed so real, though. Like a vision, maybe.”

She reaches her injured hand up to stroke the side of his face, just as his mother had, and it brings his eyes back up to hers. 

“Is that…” he sounds almost like a child now, “is that what Bran showed you? What you couldn’t tell me before? Was it… Lyanna?”

Sansa releases more tears, wiping his away with her gentle thumb. “Yes,” she whispers carefully. “Jon, I’m so sorry. I wanted to tell you but Bran said–”

“I know,” he interrupts, lowering his head a little. 

She leans into him, wrapping her arms around his neck as he brings his to her back, and they hold each other for a few quiet moments in a tight embrace.

“Are you alright?” she breathes into his ear. 

Sansa feels him nod against her neck before pulling back to look at her again. He looks so drained, but there is something else she can see in his eyes, something she doesn’t recognize at first as she’s never quite seen it there before. It’s peace. 

“She showed me the ruby, the one you sewed into my jerkin.” Jon plays with her fingers, almost shyly, as he tells her about his mother. “I still don’t know what it all means, or why everything happened the way it did.”

“Maybe that’s not important.” Sansa speaks slowly, wanting to say so much, but struggling to find the words. “Do you remember the night of the feast, back in Greywater Watch?”

Jon smiles a little, still gazing at her fingers. “It’s hard to forget, Sansa. Even with a knock on the head.”

She smiles too, blushing slightly. “I meant _before_ the feast, when I was losing my mind over visions and three-eyed ravens and faceless men.”

He nods, looking up at her through heavy lashes, and he already knows what she’s going to say. 

“You told me this was all leading us somewhere, and that whatever it was, it would be okay. Do you still believe that? Because I do.” Her words are so soft, so sure, and all he can do is brings his lips to hers and press in. 

Just then the door bursts open, making them both jump and turn toward the intruder. 

“Uh, sorry. Don’t mind me.” 

Arya screws her face up awkwardly, but then moves to Sansa’s wardrobe without further acknowledgement of their questioning faces. She pulls open the cupboard and begins rummaging through its contents.

“Nice to see you conscious again, Sans.” 

“Arya, what are you doing?” 

“Nothing, I just uh… need to borrow some things. Is that alright?” 

Sansa sees her clothing being tossed to the floor as her sister’s voice comes from behind the half door. “What for?” 

She has no objection to Arya taking her things, nor to the mess she is making of her chamber, but the idea that she would _want_ to wear any of Sansa’s garments has her utterly perplexed. 

“It’s for, um… a game,” – Arya clears her throat a bit, then clarifies – “with Gendry.” 

Sansa nods, seeming to fully understand now, then she turns back to Jon who clearly does not, though that’s probably for the best. He’s staring at the storm of silk raining about Arya’s feet, one eye brow cocked, but before he can ask Sansa quickly changes the subject. 

“We need to speak to the lords, they’ll have concerns about the recovery efforts, and about Cersei. We should also call all the remaining banners to Winterfell to let them know the fighting’s done and that we don’t blame them for staying at home. They should know it was our intention–”

“I’ve already done all that,” Arya calls out as she shuffles heavy dresses around. Then she bends and opens a drawer near the bottom of the wardrobe. Sansa looks at Jon for the answer to her unspoken question. 

“I told you,” he smiles proudly. “Arya’s been taking care of things while you rested and I watched over you.” 

“What’s this?” A hand thrusts out from behind the door, holding a wide strip of material embellished with metal. 

“A belt.”

“And this?” The hand disappears and reappears holding something spiral-shaped.

“It’s for your hair. We need to organize the prisoners for questioning. Anyone who fought with the Boltons should have a chance to explain–”

“Sansa.” 

Arya comes out from behind the wardrobe fully now, a heavy purple dress draped over one arm and a silky pale green one draped over the other. 

“Everything is taken care of, and whatever isn’t can wait until you’re well. The grounds are nearly cleared, every Bolton banner has been burned, anything with that asshole’s stench on it has been scrubbed clean, ravens have been sent out, the gates are being repaired, the kitchens are stocked, the injured are being tended, and the only _concern_ any of the lords have is whether or not you’re feeling better.” 

Sansa closes her mouth, having been effectively silenced, and scowls a bit at Jon’s satisfied smirk.

“Now,” Arya continues, bringing the conversation back to what is important as she holds up the dresses, “which one of these is better?” 

Jon bites the inside of his mouth to keep from laughing at the idea of her in a dress at all, much less one of these fancy feminine garbs. Sansa pushes the furs back and dismisses Jon’s look of protest as she stands from the bed and moves over to her sister. 

He watches as she methodically removes the gowns from Arya’s arms, setting them aside, then pulls up some items from the floor, another few things from the drawer, and finally a simple but elegant dress made of deep blue velvet from its hanger. 

“Here,” she insists with expertise as she hands the chosen items to Arya. “These should do.”

“I think I’ll go find Theon,” Jon announces to the strange sisterly exchange he still doesn’t quite understand. 

“Thank you, Jon.” Sansa smiles at him with appreciation and then opens a small box, pulling out a delicate necklace with a dragonfly on its chain. He smiles back and as he leaves the room he hears her worrying, “What are you going to do about shoes? None of mine will fit.” 

By the time he returns with Theon, Sansa’s dressed, tidied the disheveled wardrobe, and braided her hair in a way that conceals both the teeth marks on her neck and the fading bruise on her cheek. She’s even made her bed. Though he still worries, Jon finds it a relief to see her appearing so much like herself again. 

When Sansa sees them entering the chamber tears immediately fill her eyes again and her arms wrap around Theon’s trembling back. He bends his face into her shoulder, starting to weep, and Jon quietly leaves them alone, though he remains close by in the adjacent solar, listening for any signs of distress. 

***

Gendry still isn’t sure how she’d given him the slip, though he supposes it shouldn’t surprise him. She is a skilled assassin who can change her face, after all. When he grows tired of getting lost in the castle trying to locate her, he decides to go back to their room so he can clean up before the funeral. 

As he walks through the door, for a moment he thinks he’s entered the wrong chamber. Sat upon a high, cushioned stool in the center of the room is the most incredible creature he’s ever laid eye on. Her dark hair is shiny and sleek, piled atop her head with a few strands cascading free to frame her face. 

And oh, her face. 

Those haunting eyes are even darker somehow, shaded and lined in a way that accentuate her mysterious allure. Her lips are tinted with a stain that reminds him of how they look after he’s worn them raw with his own desperate need. And the way those lips are curved with an air of poised authority, it nearly has him spilling in his trousers.

But the strangest and most captivating of all is her dress. Lush velvet drapes her pale neck, meeting in the center of her body where it’s held together with a satin sash, the blue skirts expanding down in waves over the curve of her hips and reaching to the floor. Peeking out from the beneath the parted collar is a corset, laced with silk and pressing her breasts into a tight restraint as they threaten to spill over the edge. 

It isn’t until she stands, lifting the hem of her skirts as she moves toward him, that Gendry realizes the length falls far past her feet. Then he sees the sleeves have been folded back on her arms as well. The dress is too big for her, but she moves in it effortlessly all the same. 

He’s completely speechless as she approaches slowly, giving him a chance to gawk at her a while longer, and then when she speaks it floors him how truly refined she sounds. 

“Good ser,” she addresses with false curtesy, “it is highly inappropriate for you to enter a lady’s chamber unannounced and without a chaperone. One might assume you’ve intentions to do me harm, as you’ve already proven you lack regard for propriety.”

Gendry simply swallows, watching her move about him like a snake circling its prey. When she’s near enough, he catches the scent of perfume as well. 

“Well,” she implores seductively, “have you nothing to say for yourself? No explanation for this intrusion? Perhaps you have come to dishonor me after all. Perhaps I should scream for my guards to come and rescue me from this heathen who would violate my noble virtue.” 

She waits longer this time for his response, and finally he manages to speak. “Forgive me, my lady. I meant no offense.”

Arya smirks a little before pulling her façade into a stony expression again. “And yet, whatever your meaning, you do offend my delicate nature all the same. You are a bastard, are you not?”

“I am, m’lady.” Gendry clears his throat, feeling the heat rise in his chest. 

“My lady mother always warned me that bastards are born of lust, and as such their nature is true to those origins. Would you say that’s true?”

“N.. no, m’lady.”

“Are you calling my dear mother a liar?”

“No, no of course not. I… again, forgive me. I am but a simple smith, lost on my way to the armory. I mean no harm toward your ladyship, I swear it.” 

Arya has circled behind him, but he stands at attention waiting to speak until spoken to, keeping his eyes forward. When she speaks again, a chill run through him as her breath hits the back of his neck.

“On your way to the armory, you say? Strange how a smith by trade would forget that the armory is located outdoors, and not within a lady’s chamber, wouldn’t you say?”

“Yes, m’lady, I mean… no.”

“One could be forgiven for thinking you speak dishonestly. Is that the case?” He feels her lean in even closer. “Are you a liar and a bastard, then?” 

Gendry licks his lips as they’ve gone dry, but before he can answer she slips around to the face him once again, and the sight of her so near keeps him silent. Slowly, even delicately, she brings one hand up to rest on his chest. 

“Tell the truth now, bastard. What are your intentions for me? Have you come to steal my precious virtue after all? To lay your filthy lowborn hands upon the innocent flesh of a noble young lady and ravish her with your lustful nature?” 

His eyes comb over her, the blood pulsing through his veins from his head down to his aching cock. Then her tongue peeks out between her lips, wetting them just a touch, and he loses all control. 

“Yes,” he growls sharply, then reaches both hands to her bodice and splits the dress open down her center in one savage rip. 

A gasp escapes her throat as he yanks her closer with his fists still clutching the fine velvet. Then he takes her lips with his in a hungry assault, shoving his tongue so far down her throat she nearly chokes. In a single swift motion, Gendry lifts her up by the back of her thighs and carries her to the bed, throwing her down roughly upon it. 

She stares up at him, with smeared lips and disheveled skirts, watching as he strips off his clothes until he is standing above her, naked, with his massive cock hanging heavy and threatening between his thighs. 

He sees her eyes flash with desire and she sucks her lower lip between her teeth, but then she reforms her scandalized expression once again. 

“Please,” she whimpers convincingly. “I’m but an innocent girl, my virtue intended for the trueborn lord I’m to one day wed. You mustn’t corrupt me so, I beg you.” 

Gendry reaches down, closing his fist around her arduously contained hair, then pulls it roughly until her face is level with his groin.

“So many pretty words spilling from such a pretty mouth.” He takes the hand not gripping her hair and pushes his thumb across her lips. “Perhaps I’ll let you keep your virtue intact for that pampered lord of yours, but first be a good girl and swallow my bastard seed.”

Arya releases another strained whine, only this time failing to hide her own base desire. Gendry slips his thumb down her chin, dragging her lip along with it as he pries open her jaw. She resists, trying to pull away, but he shoves his thick cock between her lips and pushes it to the back of her throat, keeping her face pressed to his groin until he feels her gagging around the tip. Then his slides himself back, dragging his pulsing flesh across her tongue in slow torture before plunging back in fully once again. 

“That’s it,” he groans as he pulls her back and forth across his length by her hair. “Mmm… such a good girl taking me deep. Yes, you like how it tastes, don’t you? My filthy lowborn cock on that sweet tongue. That’s right, take it all my lady.” 

Gendry continues to fuck her slowly, savoring the strain deep inside her throat each time he presses in a far as he can reach, always stilling there until he feels the lurch of her choke. He offers no reprieve, refusing to leave her mouth even long enough for her to swallow her own pooling spit, instead forcing it to spill from the tight corners of her mouth, wetting his balls as they grind into her chin. 

When he feels himself getting close, he moves both his hands to the sides of her face, cupping her just beneath her jaw with his thumbs circling around her throat. Then he fucks her hard, thrusting into her as her choked cries vibrate around his girth. 

Arya grips his thighs to balance herself against his accelerating pace, and as he draws near, she digs her nails into his flesh. 

“Are you ready for it, my lady?” He grunts like a beast, his hips pounding brutally as his thumbs start to press down on her neck. “You want this cum in your belly, don’t you? You thirst for it.”

Tears begin to fall from her eyes, dripping black lines down her cheeks, as her entire face strains against his harsh assault. She whines louder, shifting her grip from his thighs to his ass, pulling him into her with even more haste. 

“Gods you take my cock so good, just like a proper whore. Is that what you are now, Lady Stark? A bastard’s whore?” 

A deep groan rolls up from her now and Gendry chokes it back, seating himself fully in the depths of her throat as he grinds her face into his sweaty groin. His release starts spills forth, hot, pulsing streams of cum shooting into her savaged throat, suffocating her until the very last drop has been emptied from his balls. Then he releases his hold, freeing her from his cock at last. 

She coughs and sputters, wiping her face as she soothes the pain from her aching jaw. The bitter taste of semen burns her throat, and his thick supply settles heavy into her stomach. Gendry tries to keep his face hard, but he watches her carefully as she recovers, making sure she’s actually alright. When she lifts her ruined face to him again, his freshly spent cock starts to revive at the sight of nearly unrestrained lust in her eyes.

“Gods, Arya. That was so…”

“Shut up and fuck me, Gendry.” 

Even weakened by the use of her throat, Arya’s voice is filled with command and Gendry crawls onto the bed, taking her swollen lips with his. They kneel before each other as he pulls the dress off of her completely, tearing the sash this time, as well. 

His mouth moves to her neck as he lays her back and she laughs into his ear, “Sansa’s going to murder you for ripping her things.” 

Gendry pauses for a moment, sitting back to look at her in sudden realization of where she’d attained these clothes. However, the image of her splayed out before him in a corset and silk smallclothes has him surrendering to his fate as reaches down and rips the corset apart too.

Arya laughs and then pulls him back to her, wrapping her legs around his hips as he devours her tits. Soon he flips her over, pulling her up to her knees, and then pushes her smallclothes down her thighs before diving into her face-first.

He drinks from the well of desire pouring from her cunt, dripping down the back of her thighs and staining her borrowed silks. His tongue laps at every inch of flesh her essence has touched, greedily claiming it for himself as his cock fills again to full capacity. 

“Please,” she begs, only now it isn’t a game anymore. She needs him inside of her, aching for the release that only his cock can provide. “Gendry, please! Fuck me, hard, now!”

Never one to deny her anything, Gendry lifts himself up and forces his thick shaft into her tight, desperate cunt. Arya screams in gratitude, howling for all the castle to hear as he drives into her from behind, again and again, with complete abandon. Then, just as she’s about to reach her peak, he pulls away.

Arya presses her face into the pillow with raging frustration, growling so hard it could rally a pack of wolves to her door in an instant. But then he flips her again, laying her on her back as she scowls up to him in anger. 

“I want to see your face when you come,” he explains, yanking the smallclothes off her ankles and moving himself between her thighs. Then he lifts her hips so that she is resting against his knees. “It’s the most incredible thing to see, and I’ve gone far too long without it.”

“It’s been three – ahhh!” 

He silences her by entering again, only this time it is slow and with brutal intent. The angle of her hips causes his length to press against her from within in a way that she knows will have her coming in seconds. 

Arya’s mouth hangs open, her eyes threatening to clench shut, but his stare keeps her focused on him instead. She can’t speak, or even cry out, her moans choked back as every muscle in her body starts to seize at once. In the final moments, Gendry grasps her ankles and raises them to his shoulders, stretching into her with long, hard thrusts until he can feel her locking down around his cock.

The river within her pushes against his flesh, but he holds her tight, refusing to let up against the current. Liquid spurts out from the sides of her cunt like cracks in a dam, and then the pressure surges even more as his own release adds to the tide. The feeling is incredible, and the desperate contortion of her face makes it all the more amazing for Gendry. 

Finally, he relents, letting himself be pushed back by the force of their fluids. His cock slips from her with a pop and the last of his seed sprays across her tilted hips as her flood releases against his thighs. Then he collapses onto her, drowning with her in the sea of their passion as they gasp and tremble in each other’s arms.


	62. The Full Moon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Theon says goodbye to Yara, then runs into some familiar faces. Sansa and Jon share an intimate moment together.

“Lord, take your servant Yara back beneath the waves. Feed the creatures of your kingdom on her flesh. Pull her bones down to your depths to rest beside her ancestors. What is dead may never die.”

Theon hadn’t attended the burning of the bodies in Winterfell. Instead, he and the other Ironborn traveled a half-day south to the banks of the White Knife river to honor their queen and send her to rest with the Drowned God. It isn’t the sea but it is as close as they could come and Theon silently asks his sister’s forgiveness for that. 

Once her body disappears among the rapids, swallowed in the black of night, he turns and follows her men back to the edge of the Wolfswood to gather their horses. Just as he reaches to untie the reins from the tree he’d bound them to, something shifts. Theon peers into the dark woods and sees the great orbs of her direwolf first, and then he sees her.

“Arya? I… I didn’t know you were here.”

She steps closer from the shadows and sees him wipe the tears off his face. 

“Where are you going?” she asks quietly, already knowing it isn’t back to Winterfell.

Theon looks down, and then steps back from his horse. He nods to the others as they mount theirs and then ride off into the dark without him. 

“I’m taking the Ironborn back to Pyke.”

Arya keeps her eyes focused on Theon, though Nymeria nudges at her leg. “Go on,” she says quietly to the wolf, tipping her chin without moving her glance. “Go hunt, but be quick about it.” 

Nymeria disappears into the woods, leaving Arya alone with the man she’d come to see. She moves closer, feeling Theon flinch a little as she lifts her hand to his shoulder. 

“I’m sorry Theon, about Yara.” 

He starts to thank her, but when he looks into her eyes he can see the statement is not meant as a condolence. It is a confession. The image of Arya leaping onto Ramsay has played in his mind on a loop since it happened, for that is the moment he cut her throat. 

“It wasn’t your fault,” he replies weakly. 

“It was.”

“Arya–”

“I knew what he would do,” she insists, tightening her grip on him. Arya needs him to understand. “I knew he would kill your sister when I attacked him, and I did it anyway… to save mine.”

Theon stares at her for a moment longer, pain and anger flooding from his eyes along with the tears. Then she drops her hand away and waits for him to respond, in whatever way he must. Finally, he steps away from her and sits wearily on a fallen log near the edge of the river. She waits a moment, then sits down beside him.

“He would have killed her eventually,” Theon says quietly, “only he’d have tortured her until she begged for it first. He’d have killed Sansa, too. I know that. No matter what she believed about him needing her to make an heir, Ramsay was never motivated by power. At least, not the kind of power that comes from a last name.”

“I didn’t know Yara well, but I admired her. I haven’t met many women warriors before, it’s a rare thing.”

“Well, there’s you.”

“I’m not a soldier, Theon. I’m a killer.”

He glances at her, but her eyes are fixed on the water now. There is a darkness in her that wasn’t there when they were children. She’s always been fierce and brave, even terrifying at times, but this is something else. He wonders if she’s as different from the person she was back then as he is, now.

“You don’t have to be what they made you, Arya.” 

He surprises himself with the statement as much as it appears to surprise her, for she looks back at him with a sharp glare. Theon hesitates for a moment but then takes a deep breath, gathering the courage his sister helped him to restore, and continues.

“People change. We become something else, a stranger, even to ourselves. Survival comes at a cost, for all of us, but as long as we’re still breathing it’s always possible to change again.”

“I’ll never be who I was before.”

“No,” he agrees. Then he turns and his eyes pierce something deep within her. “But they don’t own you anymore, Arya, none of them do. You’re free now. Don’t forget that and for fuck’s sake don’t let it go to waste.”

She watches him a while, considering his words even after he’s turned back to the water. Then she reaches over and eases his flinch of surprise as she wraps her arms around him. Soon enough, he returns the embrace. 

Suddenly, a strange noise in the distance pulls them both to their feet. Arya calls out for her wolf, but it does not come. Theon unsheathes his sword as he looks around, trying to see through the darkness beyond the trees. All is quiet now, though the feeling of something being amiss doesn’t ease for either of them. There is definitely something out there. 

Arya walks to a nearby tree and sits at the base of it, pressing her back to the trunk. “Wait here, I’ll be right back,” she tells him strangely, as she’s only just settled herself into stillness.

“Where are you going?”

Without offering him an answer, Theon sees her eyes roll into the back of her head until all that remains is white. 

“Arya?” he whispers, but she is limp against the tree now as if she’s fallen asleep. 

Theon wonders if this is another aspect of her Faceless Man training, but before he can think on it further he hears another noise in the woods. 

Cautious to keep himself between Arya’s body and where the noise had come from, he moves away from her and takes a few steps into the woods. If he has to, he’ll throw her onto his horse and ride off, but for now he waits.

A growl echoes through the trees and it is a welcome sound. Either the noise had been Nymeria returning, or she is close enough to defend them from whatever else it is. Then he sees a direwolf appear out of the dark, only it isn’t the one belonging to Arya. 

With bloody eyes filled with revenge and a coat as pale as his master’s name, this is unmistakably the direwolf of Jon Snow. 

As the beast draws closer, another rumbling snarl pulls Theon’s attention to the space beside it. He hadn’t seen this one at first, with its black fur and black eyes to match, but now the other direwolf comes into view as well. Both have their teeth bared as they stalk threateningly near. 

Theon backs up, inching toward Arya again, but she remains unmoving against the tree. He wants to call out to her but thinks better of making any sudden noise for fear of provoking their aggression. With his sword still raised, Theon readies himself to defend against the attack.

Just as the direwolves lower themselves in a position to lunge, Theon is pushed back by the emergence of Nymeria directly in front of him. He stumbles, tripping over Arya’s outstretched legs, but catches himself against the tree before he falls. 

Glancing at Arya, he sees her eyes are still white, then he looks back at the confrontation developing before him. Nymeria growls at her brothers, seeming to stop their approach, though their eyes remain seething on Theon. She lets out a single, echoing bark and then the other direwolves sit back on their haunches in reluctant submission. 

More figures begin to emerge through the darkness from behind the massive beasts. Before he can get a good look, he jolts in shock to realize Arya is standing by his side as if she’d been there the whole time. He looks to her, only for a moment, then they both watch as the figures come into view. 

“Bran!” Arya runs forward and flings her arms around her brother, holding him close as she wets his cloak with her tears.

He’d emerged from nowhere, appearing behind the wolves and flanked by what she assumed to be three Wildlings. Two are women, standing on either side of him, and the third a young man pushing his wheelchair through the path in the snow. 

When she’s finished her crushing hug, she steps back to fully take him in. His eyes are strange, his body grown but still thin, and his mouth only curves into the slightest of smiles. More tears fall down her face, but she wipes them away and opens her mouth to ask how’d gotten here. Before she can speak, though, the man who’d been pushing his chair steps around Bran and moves toward Arya.

She looks at him properly for the first time, taking in his scruffy beard and familiar wild hair. Then her eyes bulge and her jaw drops in shock. “Rickon?”

He laughs, his voice low and hearty. “Hiya Arya.” 

A scream of glee pours from her throat and even though he’s at least a foot taller than her now she locks her arms around his waist and hoists him up, spinning him around as if he were still only six years old. 

The two women smile at the exchange, but Bran keeps his eyes locked on the man who’d once roused him from sleep before stealing his home and murdering his friend, along with the two orphan boys he’d sent to work on a farm. 

“Hello Theon,” he says coldly. 

Arya and Rickon both turn toward Bran and then to Theon now stepping forward from the shadows. 

“Bran,” he sighs, “Rickon.” Theon moves closer, tears in his eyes again, but whatever he might fear of their retaliation it is the sight of them both still alive that makes him weep. Then the taller of the two women comes into the light and he recognizes her as well. “Osha?”

***

The funeral pyres had been built far enough from the castle that the stench no longer bothers Sansa once she’s back in her chamber. 

The ceremony had been somber, and Jon spoke words of gratitude for all who had fallen in service of their cause. He’d even acknowledged those who’d fought for the Boltons, speaking of duty and the harsh realities of being simple men sworn to evil lords. Then he honored the women, children, and elderly his own soldiers had unknowingly slaughtered on the first day of the battle. 

The pain in his voice was brutal as he spoke of these cruel tactics, and he was careful not to absolve himself from the costs of war. Finally, he acknowledged that there would be more fights to come, but that he vowed to never take a life without knowing to full weight of that choice.

Later, during a small feast for those still among the living, the atmosphere quickly shifted to one of happy victory. The North had suffered under the Boltons, and although most of those subjects were either still home in their refuges or in the process of traveling to Winterfell, the men who’d fought with Jon had been united under the Northern cause whether or not they called this land their home. 

Sansa enjoyed seeing the men celebrate, and expressed her gratitude to every one of them she could. However, it seemed as though each conversation she’d started in that vein quickly shifted to her being asked if she was feeling better. Even Tormund, with his drunken good intentions, had made a toast to Lady Sansa’s recovery to good health. 

Thankfully, just as the man started to delve into the details of her injuries at the hands of the Boltons, both recent and not, Jon interrupted him with a toast to Wun Wun, the fallen giant. By the end of it, Tormund was blubbering so hard he could’ve spilled every one of her secrets and nobody would understand a word. 

The festivities continued long after Jon escorted Sansa from the great hall, ever concerned that she was going to be overwhelmed, but this time she didn’t mind. She’d been looking forward to spending time alone with Jon, only conscious and without their conversation having to involve anything particularly traumatic. 

They needn’t speak at all as far as she’s concern, for there are other ways she hopes to use her lips tonight. 

Jon sits back against the foot of the bed as he watches her start to undress. She tries to move slowly, even seductively, as she pulls her belt away from her waist but when she looks back at him he only smiles softly. She knows all too well he’s thinking about getting her into bed, just not for the reasons she wants.

“I’ve had the Lord’s Chamber prepared for you,” he says with a frustrating lack of innuendo. “When you’re feeling well enough we can have your things moved into there.” 

“I feel just fine, Jon.” Her eyes meet his over her shoulder and she slips her heavy gown down the length of her arms. Then she moves her hair away from her back, exposing the laces of her corset. “Could you help me with these?”

Jon moves to her in an instant, focusing on her request dutifully. Yet still, he doesn’t pick up on her intentions.

“Besides, don’t you mean when _you’re_ feeling brave enough to bed me in the room that once belonged to my mother?” 

Jon sniffs a little laugh in response, but as the binding comes loose around her ribs she feels him tracing her sides with his fingers. Just when she thinks she’s getting somewhere, she turns to see him pinching his brow with concern once again.

“I don’t think you should wear that anymore while you’re pregnant.”

“Jon, I’m not even showing yet.” The frustration in her voice over his statement is not very well concealed. 

“I know,” he says quickly, trying to sound less commanding over her choice of clothing, not realizing the true cause her irritation. “It just seems… constricting is all.” 

She turns away from him again, moving to place her things inside her wardrobe. “A corset is as constricting as I decide to make it,” she informs him, “and this one happens to be plated with steel. It makes me feel safe to wear it.”

She glances at him through her mirror as she finishes hanging her dress and sees that he’s now staring at the floor. She sighs, relaxing the defensiveness in her shoulders, and then moves back to him again, wrapping her arms around his neck as he holds her waist. 

“I just want to protect you, Sansa.” He sounds apologetic but not ready to yield. “The maester –”

“The maester said I need to relax, and that I shouldn’t be distressed.” She kisses his neck on one side and then the other, pressing her hips into his. 

“Sansa…” 

She sucks on the skin just below his beard, opening his shirt slowly. “All of your fussing is causing me distress, Jon. So… help me relax.” 

He sighs and Sansa lifts her gaze to him, smiling kindly and mischievously too. It doesn’t take much to persuade him, really, only her tongue brushing her own lips.

Jon removes the rest of her clothes and his own in record time, and somewhere in the process they end up falling down onto the bed. Careful to avoid her injuries by hovering on his knees above her, he kisses her deeply, his tongue finding hers as his hand travels slowly down her body. 

His fingers brush down her side, tickling her ribs before gliding over her hips and down her thighs. Then he brings his hand back up her breast, the growing fullness noticeably heavier after only a few days without her. He is gentle, knowing how sensitive she must be now, and when he lightly swipes his thumb across her nipple she arches against him. 

Jon continues to focus on her tits, bringing the one he’s not caressing to his mouth. At first, he simply brushes his lips back and forth over her stiff nipple, studying the way this movement causes gooseflesh to arouse over her pale skin. Then he flicks her with the tip of his tongue making her whimper and squeeze her thighs together. 

He hides the smile this causes by pulling her into his mouth, suckling at her nipples just as the child growing inside her will soon do. Jon could spend all night right here at her breasts, but when he feels her hand reach down and grab his cock, it pulls him out of his hypnotic state. 

Sansa squeezes him intently, a signal of what she wants, what she’s be without for much too long. He groans against her nipple and then travels his lips back up the long stretch of her neck, then kisses her sweet mouth again as he lowers his body between her parting thighs. 

She whines into his lips, wrapping her hands around his neck to pull him closer, and then she feels the tip of his cock settle against her entrance. Jon rocks and circles his hips slowly, teasing her pulsing clit with his searching erection as he balances on his elbows, his arms hooked beneath hers, his fingers swirling in her hair. 

He pulls his lips away, lifting his face above her as they stare deeply into each other’s eyes. Suddenly, Sansa blushes as if this were their first time together. His thumb grazes her pink cheek and he smiles at her with all the love he has threatening to burst from his pounding chest. 

Then he presses his warm flesh into hers, slowly entering her as he continues to watch her face. Sansa’s parted mouth trembles as she pulls in a shallow breath, then she sucks her bottom lip between her teeth. 

“You look so beautiful,” he whispers with a rasping sigh.

When he’s halfway inside her, Jon stills a moment, savoring the feel of her pulse beating against him, then he pulls back a little before sliding his cock all the way in. Sansa releases her lip along with a groan of relief, and then he feels her thighs lift around his hips as he rocks in and out. 

Jon kisses her again, parting her lips and teasing her tongue with his. He releases warm breaths into her mouth as the sensation of being in her again starts to immediately push him toward the edge. 

One hand travels down her body and he grips her thigh, attempting to restrain himself against spilling so soon, but the pressure of her own release starts to build just as quickly and all his defenses are lost. He moves faster, almost frantic, as his hips thrust against her with one base objective.

Her breath quickens, then halts abruptly as she closes down around him in an unrelenting grip, making Jon come instantly, his seed erupting from his desperate cock in vicious, uncontrolled spurts as he grunts savagely against her lips. 

When the surge of his release finally softens, she laughs a little at his haste. She'd known he needed this just as much as she did, though she’ll keep that thought to herself.

“What?” He pants, smiling down at her from where he’s perched on his elbows, still gently rocking inside of her as his erection begins to fade. “Are you laughing at me, Lady Stark?” 

“Never,” she promises, trying to suppress her giggle. He doesn’t seem to believe her so she kisses him sweetly. “I’m just happy, Jon. I’m happy that we’re home, that we’re together.” 

Something seems to flash in his eyes then and before she can question it he pulls his body from her, leaving the cold night air to whip against her moistened flesh. Jon crosses the room to find the pile of their discarded clothing and starts to dress again.

“What are you doing?” she asks from her abandoned state on the bed.

“Come on, get dress,” he instructs with an almost childlike excitement. “I want to show you something.” 

Once they’ve fastened their cloaks, Jon pulls her by the hand out of her chamber and through the halls of their home. He won’t tell her where they’re going, but soon they find themselves outside, marching across the battlements toward the northern side of the castle. 

Finally, they turn a corner and the night opens up before them as the field below comes into view. All is quiet and the snow-covered ground glimmers majestically in its vast expanse. Jon steps behind her, wrapping his arms around her waist as his hands rest gently against her belly. 

Then Sansa leans back, her head tilting against him as her eyes rise up to the full moon hanging bigger and brighter than any she’s ever seen. He turns his face to kiss her and sees that she is crying, so he catches her tears with his lips. 

“I love you,” he whispers against her cheek. “Thank you for bringing us home.”


	63. Ice and Fire

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sansa has another vision, Arya brings her brothers home, and Jon visits Melisandre.

Sansa feels like she is flying. 

Icy wind beats against her face as her hair whips behind her in a frantic flourish. Her thighs are pressed to something hard and cold, only it moves beneath her like it is alive. She can’t see anything because she is too afraid to open her eyes, and her arms are wrapped around Jon’s waist as she clings to his back with every ounce of strength she possesses. 

A sudden drop lurches her stomach up into her throat as frozen crystals shatter around her, showering her face in a mist of ice. Then they are rising up once again. 

_Oh gods, I am flying._

“Jon!” she gasps as she jolts upright. He startles awake at her cry and instantly reaches for her, pulling her arms into his grasp as he lifts himself to his knees beside her on the bed. 

“I’m right here,” he soothes. He’s terrified, remembering the last time she’d woken up like this, gasping and dazed. Her account of that dream still haunts him every day. _I was dying._

“Sansa, you’re okay, I’m here.” 

She takes a deep breath, gathering her surroundings as she holds onto Jon tightly as if still afraid she might fall. Then she releases her sigh as her eyes clear, and then pats his chest gently to signal she’s back to normal again. “I’m sorry, Jon. I didn’t mean to worry you. I’m fine, really.”

“Was it a nightmare?”

“No,” she says quickly, though she sounds unsure. “It might have been a vision, but _gods_ I hope not.” 

“Why? What did you see?” 

Jon is panicked, and Sansa quickly shakes her head in apology, then tries to offer a him some reassurance.

“No, it was nothing like that. It wasn’t anything horrible, at least… not like you’re thinking.”

“Sansa, if you don’t tell me what it was I’m going to continue thinking _everything_ horrible.”

She smiles and touches his face, then kisses him gently and it seems to relax him a little. “I just mean… it was scary, for me, but that’s because I’m afraid of heights.” 

Jon lifts an eyebrow at her, and sits up a little straighter. He no longer seems overly worried, but certainly curious. 

“I was…” she begins, then revises, “well, _we_ were, um… flying? I think.”

“Like birds?” He wonders if this is a warg thing, if perhaps Bran was influencing her again somehow.

“No, no it wasn’t that. I couldn’t really see because I had my eyes closed. But I was holding onto you and we were moving through the air, riding something, like a horse only bigger like…”

“A dragon.” 

It hadn’t occurred to her before, but now she realizes that’s what it must have been. She looks at Jon and he doesn’t seem at all surprised, only now he’s terrified again. 

“What else do you remember, Sansa. Think hard, this is important.” 

She closes her eyes and tries to focus, conjuring whatever she can from the memory of the vision. 

“It was cold,” she says quietly. 

“What was cold?” 

“Everything, the wind, you, the dragon.”

“How cold?”

“Like ice. We were going fast and we were high up, it probably felt cold because…” She remembers the drop. “It was hit, I think, the dragon. We plummeted a little, and ice sprayed all around us, but then we were steady again.” 

“Is there anything else?” 

Sansa keeps her eyes shut, then she starts to see something, or remember seeing something. “There was a blue light. I had my eye closed but I saw a brightness and it was definitely blue.” 

She tries for a while longer to see if there is anything else she can recall, but when nothing more comes she opens her eyes again. Jon’s face shocks her, mostly because he looks so shocked himself.

“What, Jon? What is it?” 

His eyes shift, moving away from her and landing on some spot across the room. But he isn’t looking at anything, she knows, as his gaze is distant in some memory. Frustrating silence continues to pass and Sansa starts to understand why this is so upsetting to him when she does it.

“ _Jon,_ ” she pleads. Then he finally meets her eyes again, blinking as if lifting from a trance.

“The blue light,” he begins quietly, and there is something like fear in his voice. “I saw it too.” 

“When? Where?”

“In a dream,” Jon answers, then he corrects himself adding, “dreams. I’ve dreamt of seeing it down in the crypts, a few times, and Father was there.” 

Sansa sees him flinch for a moment and he bites his lip. She knows he is considering the fact that Ned Stark isn’t actually his father, but to her relief he does not correct himself on this part. 

“And my mother,” he continues quietly, “I saw it the night of the battle, too, when she came to me. She said…” Jon pauses, contemplating the memory. “She said it wasn’t time yet.”

Nothing of this makes sense to Sansa, but she remains patient and gentle, knowing how difficult it can be to explain such things. “It wasn’t time for what, Jon?”

“To wake the dragon.” 

Sansa gasps, and now Jon looks to her for answers. This time she doesn’t make him wait.

“Bran said the same thing in the godswood at White Harbor, when I kissed him goodbye. He said that was the reason I couldn’t tell you who you were. That we couldn’t wake the dragon.” Sansa sees his glare narrow on her, almost accusingly, and she knows his suspicion isn’t of her, but of the Raven. 

Jon’s eyes fall away from hers again, leaving her to her confusion as he wrestles with his own. Then, as he continues, Sansa knows he is speaking to himself.

“I thought… I thought she meant me. That I was the dragon, and that I…” He shakes his head in frustration, as if jostling his mind would make the pieces fall into place. Then suddenly, he moves back with a jolt and thrusts away the furs, practically leaping from her bed, and begins to dress.

“Jon, what are you doing?” Sansa gets up too, but her eyes remain on him with growing caution. “What’s wrong?”

“There’s something down there,” he replies vaguely as he pulls up in breeches. His shaking hands wrestle with the laces, failing miserably to tie them, and Sansa moves to take over the task. Her presence slows him down and Jon takes in a deep breath. 

“Down where?” she asks carefully. “In the crypt?” 

He nods, noting her concern for only a moment before turning away to retrieve his tunic. “It was there that night,” he tells her. “The night I killed Ramsay. It wasn't a dream, I saw it before I was knocked out, only I didn’t remember before. The ground with shaking, it’s what caused the cave in, and there was a blue light.”

When he’s fastened his sword around his waist, Sansa moves to him again, grasping his arm just as he turns toward the door. “Wait,” she begs. “What if it’s dangerous? Jon, Bran said we could all die.”

“He said we would die if I knew before we took back Winterfell. Well, we’ve taken it back, I know who I am, and we’re still alive.” Jon sees her eyes fill with frightened tears and he pulls back his haste, wrapping his arms around her. “Sansa, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to be so harsh. I’m just tired of not knowing what this is all about. If there’s something down there, I need to know what it is.”

“But it’s the middle of the night,” she argues. 

He moves his hand to her face, trying to relax her concern, and she scowls in frustration as she knows this is another of his unnecessary attempts to prevent her from distress.

“I’m just going to have a look. Everything will be fine, I promise. I’ll be perfectly safe.”

Sansa hardens her face. “Alright,” she says calmly, and Jon is rightly suspicious of how easily she concedes. But then she pulls away from his grasp and starts dressing, too. 

“Sansa, what are you doing?”

“I’m going with you.”

“ _Sansa_ –”

“What’s the problem?” she taunts him in false ignorance. “You said it yourself, it’s perfectly safe.” 

He sighs, watching her pull on her boots, and before he can think up a proper argument, she breezes past him as she fastens her cloak. 

“Coming?” she calls back to him as she disappears through her chamber door. Jon brushes his hand roughly over his face in frustration, then follows her as they make their way together toward the crypt. 

***

Arya had convinced her wild little brother not to harm Theon, explaining how he’d saved Sansa’s life, but as she sits with him now, exchanging tales of their strange adventures, Rickon still shoots a threatening glare toward him from time to time. 

Mostly he does it amidst describing something ruthless – taking down a savage beast with his bare hands, or exacting torturous revenge on some treacherous enemy – but Theon simply continues to look at the fire where a rabbit hangs roasting on a spit.

In truth, the bizarre stories of life on Skagos disturb him far less than the boy sat beside him in his chair. Bran hadn’t stopped staring at him since they arrived, and the strange stillness in him makes Theon’s blood run cold. He wants to say something to him, to apologize of course, but also to tell him he’s glad that he survived, maybe even to ask his forgiveness. He doesn’t, though. 

Theon had heard the stories of what Bran was now, but he still doesn’t quite understand it. Still, to ask anything of these boys, these _men_ now, was something he could never bring himself to do. So, he stays watching the fire in silence, grateful just to be with them for a moment before returning home, even if he must suffer his way through it. 

“Got two more,” Osha announces, holding up the rabbits as she and Meera appear through the trees. 

The Wildling woman drops the carcasses at Theon’s feet, making him recoil at the sudden image of death before him, and then she sits beside him on his log. Her body is too close to his, and when she smirks at him he realizes she’s intentionally trying to make him uncomfortable. 

Theon reaches down and takes one of the rabbits, ignoring her invasive glare as he begins to remove the skin with his knife. Before he’s flayed even a few inches though, she snatches the rabbit and knife both. 

“That’s not how you do it,” she tells him, then proceeds to demonstrate her own method. “Not surprised you don’t know the proper way,” she continues to goad. “Pampered little twats don’t usually like to get their hands dirty. Isn’t that right, _Prince_ Theon?” 

This almost provokes a response, but then Bran startles everyone as he speaks instead. “He’s not a prince, not anymore. Now he’s a king.” 

Everyone turns their shocked faces to Bran at the same moment, including Theon. But the Raven just stares again, his cold eyes penetrating into the man he’d grown up with. 

Finally, Theon finds his voice and says, “There’s to be a King’s Moot. Just because my sister’s dead, it doesn’t make me a king.”

He thinks he sees Bran nod, just a little, but maybe not. Then he looks back at the rest, Arya now sharpening her blade in avoidance, Rickon eyeing him with only slightly less venom, and Meera now tending to the rabbits. Finally, his eyes fall on Osha beside him. She’s watching him closer now, all smirk having gone from her lips. He wonders if she is thinking about what Bran said, but when she speaks, she drops her eyes away him first. 

“I’m sorry to hear about your sister. Bran told us that Bolton cunt was… well he didn’t say much, but I imagine the world ain’t cryin over his end.” 

A flinch wrinkles Theon’s face as he forces himself not to cry either. He doesn’t answer her. He’ll never speak of Ramsay Bolton again, or think of him, or feel him crawling in his skin. 

He stands, and Arya gets to her feet too, knowing he is preparing to leave. She moves to him and pulls him into a hug that the rest watch in stunned silence. All but Bran. 

“Take care of yourself,” she whispers in his ear before releasing him from the embrace. “And thank you.” 

The rest of them can’t know what their strange journey has been, not even the Three-eyed Raven. He grips her shoulder, pulling her eyes up to him, and suddenly she recognizes the man before her again. He is Theon. He is her brother. 

“I’ll come back,” he tells her firmly. “When they come, I’ll be there to fight beside you.”

Arya takes a breath as a chill runs through her with the reminder of what is looming. Then she nods.

“Don’t forget what I told you,” he says more quietly this time. “You’re free, now.” 

Theon lets his hand drop away from her and rests his eyes on Rickon, then Bran, offering them his silent goodbye. Then he mounts his horse and disappears through the trees that are just starting to crack open with morning light. 

***

When they reach the lowest level of the crypt, Sansa is grateful. Jon had examined practically every corner, every tomb, and yet there had been nothing but the yellow glow of the torch he carries. 

“Jon,” Sansa calls as he continues his frantic search down the last corridor, “I think we should–”

Her words halt as abruptly as his steps do. He’s looking at something now, and as Sansa moves closer she can see it too. Halfway down the line of graves, where the passage should continue, there is only stone blocking the way, hiding the rest of the corridor behind a collapsed pile of rubble from floor to ceiling. 

Jon lifts the torch and lowers it, methodically passing over every inch of the obstruction. As he examines the broken stones, he can see that the collapse did not occur when he’d pummeled the life from Ramsay Bolton. No, this destruction happened long ago. Thick, settled dust and a vast expanse of spider webs cover the obstructed passage like an ancient guard that has stood for centuries. 

“What’s back there?” she whispers as she places a trembling hand on the small of his back. 

He doesn’t answer, just stares at the mysterious sight for a few moments more. Then, with a sudden urgency, Jon turns to Sansa and grabs her hand. “Let’s go,” he instructs, already pulling her back the way they came. 

They emerge from the cold dark place to see the sun high in the clouds. _How long had they been down there?_ Sansa feels an unexpected relief as the fresh air hits her lungs, cleansing her from the damp death she’d been breathing underground. 

Jon is strangely quiet, offering no curiosity as to what might lie beyond the mysterious barricade. Sansa decides not to question him now, haunted enough by their dance with ghosts, and follows him through the halls in silence as they make their way back toward her chamber. 

As they turn a corner, deep in mutually distracted thought, they nearly crash into another large and impenetrable barrier to their path.

“Gendry?” Sansa moves around Jon as she sees his distress. He looks relieved to see her, and Sansa realizes he’d been coming from outside of her room. “What is it? What’s wrong?”

He glances at Jon who stares back with less urgency, as if he were only halfway returned from the depths of his thoughts. Then he turns to Sansa, attempting to sounds as unalarmed as his frantic state would allow.

“Have you see Arya?” 

Jon looks at Sansa and she at him, both forgetting the crypt at last. Then they return their questioning glances to the man now nearly in tears. The surprise in their faces at his question answers it for him, and Gendry allows his dread to capture him fully.

“She been gone since before the funeral. I… I know she’s probably just… well, I don’t know what she’s probably doing.” His panic is mixed with anger now, and Sansa steps closer, placing a calming hand on his arm. 

“I swear that sister of yours is going to be the end of me. Always just disappearing, without so much as a…” He shakes his head, then makes Sansa jump as he yells, “Dammit!” 

“Hey!” Jon intervenes, but Sansa glares at him to let it go.

“I’m sorry,” Gendry sighs. “I’ve just looked everywhere. Maybe I should take a horse and–”

Jon steps closer to him now and Sansa moves back. She watches and he takes the boy’s arms in both is hand and shakes him a little. “Gendry, listen to me. You need to settle yourself. Wherever she is, I’m sure she will be fine.” 

He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t seem convinced. “But you don’t understand.”

“She can protect herself,” Sansa offers from behind Jon. “She killed an entire group of soldiers all on her own, _twice_.”

Jon nods his agreement. “Gendry, I know how you feel. I worried like hell when she left to find you after I’d only just gotten her back. But she returned, just as she promised. You know what she can do, you know what she is now.”

To his surprise, Jon’s hands lose their grip on Gendry as he pulls roughly back. 

“That’s just it,” he insists. “Do you think I’m afraid of some lumbering brute getting hold of her? She could hold her own against worse than that when she was twelve! It’s _them_ I’m worried about. They’re hunting her!”

“Who?” Jon narrows his eyes in sharp focus.

“The Faceless Men. Didn’t she tell you?”

“I thought she killed–” Sansa begins in a faded haze, her eyes glossed as if remembering something. Jon watches her, seeing her growing with fear now, too.

“That was just one of them,” Gendry interrupts. “A young girl, barely more experienced that she was. Just another one of his apprentices, but _he’s_ still out there.”

Ice sinks into Sansa veins as her face turns pale. Jon steps closer, his voice low and steady. “ _Who_ is out there, Gendry?” 

He looks around, searching, perhaps for Arya again but Jon senses it is something else. It’s as if he’s afraid to speak of the man who has him so frightened, as if doing so could make him appear. Jon knew that fear all too well. 

“The man who trained her,” he says at last, then, more quietly, “Jaqen H’ghar. He’s the one who helped us escape from Harrenhal.” 

Sansa looks to Jon then, her fear starting to match Gendry’s, but Jon glares at her in a warning to not get carried away. 

“He sent the assassin after her when she’d decided to get out.” Gendry spits the words in disgust, in betrayal. “She told me herself, there is no getting out, not really. She knew they would still be after her and it could be anyone. He could be wearing your face, for all I know, for all _she_ knows.”

Jon sees him take a second look at both of them in suspicion before shaking his head again to focus and continue his rant.

“You think Arya is so untouchable, so dangerous? Well how do you think she got that way? I’ve seen what this man can do, and I doubt what I saw was even a piece of it.”

“Gendry,” Sansa soothes, coming to him again. “You need to calm down, please. Whatever is going on, getting yourself worked up won’t help her.”

He rubs his forehead so hard Sansa fears he’ll pull his own skin off. Then he nods in agreement and crosses both arms over his chest, gripping his own elbows as he sways slightly side to side. 

“I’ll help you look, alright? She had a lot of hiding places here as a child, and I was usually the one sent to fetch her from them when our septa had given up. Come on, and try to stay calm.” 

Grateful, Gendry allows her to lead him down the corridor and as she passes Jon she shoots him back a pointed look. It is also a silent instruction for him to conduct his own search, as he’d spent more time with Arya as a child than her. She knew there must be places only he would know to look. Still, it wouldn’t help to have this frantic man worrying alongside him, especially if he was the one Arya was hiding from, as Sansa suspects might be a possibility. Perhaps their game hadn't work out the way she'd hoped.

Jon heads in the opposite direction, passing by Sansa’s chamber and continuing through the halls toward the servants’ quarters. They had often spent time there as children when they hoped to escape the rest of their noble family. But to his surprise, as he rounds the corridor lined with the smaller rooms, Jon sees Davos emerging from within the chamber at the end. 

He knows who lies within, as he’d carried her breathing, bleeding corpse there himself. It was the chamber closest to the Broken Tower, and getting her to a warm, safe bed had been urgent. 

Jon approaches the weary man and Davos barely registers his presence, his face pale and his eyes haunted. “How is she?” 

His words seems to rouse Davos' awareness somewhat, but when the man’s glance moves to Jon it's as if he still doesn’t see him, as if he’s looking through him to someplace beyond this world. 

“She’s still alive,” he mumbles in vague confusion. “Her necklace, she wanted me to… I found it for her. It’s... it's what made her…” 

The man is rambling. Jon watches him carefully, suddenly tempted to reach out to him in comfort, but he refrains. Then Davos straightens himself, clearing his throat with renewed focus.

“I need to fetch the maester. She needs more milk of the poppy.” 

Jon opens his mouth to offer to do it for him, but Davos is already moving in a quick pace down the hall, leaving him standing alone in front of her door. He stares at it for a long time, imagining what horrific sight lay on the other side. In truth, he doesn’t want to know and every selfish impulse is begging his feet to turn away. But then he finds himself moving forward, his hand gently pushing open the door, and he steps inside. 

***

Arya rides with Rickon on the horses leading the carriage. Meera, never moving far from Bran, is with him inside the wheelhouse and Osha had disappeared into the woods on the back of Shaggydog with Ghost and Nymeria sprinting alongside them. 

“What’s that?” 

She points to the strange accessory draped across the neck of her brother’s horse. It looks like a cascade of strange, twisted bones, each one stacked inside the narrowing hollow of the one before it, clinking and swaying on the rope that binds them together. 

“Unicorn horns. These are from the one’s I’ve killed.” 

Arya studies them with curiosity before turning back to the road. “That’s a lot of dead unicorns,” she points out with a smirk, hoping to provoke another wild tale of his adventures to pass the time. “Not partial, then?”

Rickon pulls her eyes back to his with a sudden glare of warning, the gravity of which shocks her. She’s never seen him look so serious, certainly not as a child, and not in any of his animated accounts throughout the night either. He truly appears like a man grown then, fierce and battle worn, like Jon.

“Arya, unicorns are some of the most vicious creatures ever to walk the earth. I pray you never confront one, no matter how skilled you are with your sword, not without Nymeria with you at least.” 

She hesitates, wondering if he’s having a go, but his eyes narrow with a haunted pain that shows her he isn’t. Rickon turns back to the road with a heavy sigh, and Arya sees the scruff of his beard shift as he clenches his jaw.

“They’re cunning, too,” he continues grimly. “They evade even the most skilled hunters, appearing through the trees with a stealth that shouldn’t be possible given their size. And they’re insatiable appetite only seeks one thing, the flesh of men.” 

Arya is speechless, still gaping at her brother as he drifts into more gruesome descriptions of these monsters he's slain. Her eyes shift back to the chain and she starts to count how many of them there are. Then the snort of her mare draws her eyes back to the steep trail it’s slowly attempting to climb. She loosens the rein she’d unknowingly gripped, having nearly lead the horse to collide with the other in her tension. 

“How did you survive?” she asks quietly, aware of her own discomfort with similar questioning. 

She can’t help it, though. She's plagued with a need to fill in the pieces of his life that had been missing, and it gives her a reluctant sympathy for her own interrogators waiting for her back through the gates of their home. 

“Osha,” he answers instantly, assuredly. “And Shaggydog. It wasn’t easy, I'll tell you that. But we've made it back home. Well, nearly.” 

The great expanse of Winterfell comes into view as they reach the top of the hill. Even in the distance the castle it is overwhelming, majestic yet looming. Arya glances back at her brother and sees his body lift up in cautious relief, his eyes trembling at the sight. 

She realizes he’s just as anxious as she was to be back here again, childhood long abandoned, to come home as a different person having lived for so long in a different world. 

“It won’t be the same,” she tells him with a knowing attempt at comfort. “But it’s still Winterfell.”

Rickon looks at her and they share a gentle smile, then carry on down the road leading them toward the castle.

***

Her eyes are open, but she doesn’t seem to see him. Instead she just stares into the flame of the candle beside her bed. She looks like she once did, beautiful and whole, not the shredded wretch he’d pulled down from Ramsay’s cross. Jon sees the necklace around her neck, but she appears to be otherwise naked beneath her heavy furs. If he didn't know any better, he'd think she was completely unharmed, her terrible captivity only visible behind her broken eyes. 

“Can I do anything, my lady?” 

His voice is timid, as if this tortured being could rise up from her bed and obliterate him with one swift blow, and perhaps she can. But she doesn’t move, or even blink in acknowledgement of his presence. She simply continues to stare at the flame. 

Jon fills a cup with water from the pitcher sat beside the candle and notices his hands are shaking as he completes this stalling task. He sits upon a stool already placed by the bed, realizing it must have been occupied by Davos these past few days, then he gently brings the cup to her lips. 

She turns her face toward it weakly, keeping her eyes stretched to the fire as she accepts a small dribble into her throat. Jon watches her struggle to swallow it down but she takes a few more meager sips before painfully lower her head back to the pillow in exhaustion. Then he softly places the cup on the table beside her, careful to not hinder her desperate view. 

The reflection of the flame dances in her dark eyes and Jon feels himself being pulled toward their despairing abyss. 

“I’m sorry,” he offers quietly, failingly. “It was my fault.” 

Melisandre continues to lay motionless beneath his pleading sorrow and Jon knows he should leave her be, but the fire in her eyes keeps him captive and soon he is unleashing his deplorable confession upon her. 

“I didn’t look for you when the pirates came, not enough. I thought… I blamed you for the attack. I wanted to believe you had distracted me so that we would be overtaken, but you were only trying to help.” 

Tears start to fall down his face and a sob suddenly lurches from his chest. 

“And you were right, right about everything. About Sansa. I should have listened to you, but I was too concerned with my own…” 

He takes a deep breath, trying to calm himself, knowing she does not need the burden of his remorse, as it will do nothing for her now. His body convulses as he cries, and no matter how hard he tries to gather his strength, he simply continues to assault her with his need for absolution. Still, she remains frozen in her trance.

“You saved me,” he pleads. “You brought me back, you brought me back so that I could find her, so that I could take back my home. It was all because of you, because of what you did for me. I’ll never forgive myself for what I’ve done, what it cost you, all because I was weak. I’m so sorry.” He is simply muttering now. “I’m so sorry.” 

Jon lets his guilt consume him, dropping his face into one hand as he snivels against it, his body quaking beneath the weight of his garish moans. Then, through the thick of his regret, he feels something soft fall onto the fist he’s clenching at his knee. 

He looks to see that it is her hand, hanging limp upon him from where she’s stretched it from beneath the furs, no doubt with painful effort. He opens his hand and gently wraps it around hers, the low heat of her skin pressing into his palm. 

The touch calms him almost instantly, as if she were pouring some tonic into his aching gut. Jon wipes the liquid from his face with his sleeve as he continues to stare at her hand in his, then he looks back at her eyes, hoping they will turn to him. 

Melisandre continues to fixate on her flame though, and Jon realizes at last that his desire for her to leave it is another act of greed. He knows somehow now that the fire is what gives her life, what heals her, and as he watches it flicker in her gaze he suddenly understands what it is she needs. 

Placing her hand back on the bed, careful to tuck it gently beneath the furs, Jon stands. Then he exits her chamber with swift determination, returning a short time later carrying a brazier he’d retrieved from outside. He goes to works quickly, shifting the table with her candle away from the bed and pushing the cold furnace into the space instead. 

Jon hears a tiny whimper escape her lips as her precious flame is moved from her, and he works even more desperately to stoke another, greater fire to replace it. 

“Try not to move, my lady,” he says as she lifts her head in an attempt to follow the candle. “This will only take a moment.”

Finally, the blaze ignites and the flames fill her room with roaring light. Jon looks to her again, hoping for some sign that this was a help. Then, as she rests her head back on the pillow, her eyes fall on the new fire and he thinks he can see the color start to replenish in her face. It may just be the glow from the brazier, though. 

Jon stands above her, watching her silently as he no longer feels compelled to rain his torment upon her. Then, just as he turns to leave, he hears her whisper, “Thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *spoiler* 
> 
> If anyone is interested in what this dragon is going to be like, I recommend reading GRRM's children's story, The Ice Dragon, which you can find full PDFs of online for free. It is what I will be basing its description on going forward, though its placement in Winterfell and relationship with Jon will be based more on ASOIAF lore (and my own imagination). I will post a picture of what they look like in a future chapter.
> 
> Most important things to know:  
> 1.) They are much bigger than fire dragons.  
> 2.) They are entirely made of actual ice (this is not a wight dragon), and breathe frozen flame.  
> 3.) They bring extremely harsh winter storms with them.  
> 4.) They usually do not have riders as they cannot be tamed and are too cold to mount, though the little girl in the story is able to do both.  
> 5.) They disappear when winter leaves, turning into large bodies of water.  
> 6.) They are incredibly dangerous, especially to fire dragons.


End file.
